Wallace of the Secret Service

by Alexander Wilson

  Manning was the first man to meet them in London. He explained that unluckily one of the men whom Beust had employed to keep watch and ward over Otto Kahn and his two companions had, at one time, been the recipient of a great favour at the hands of the secretary, and had thus been persuaded to help him to escape.

  ‘Extraordinary!’ exclaimed Sir Leonard. ‘This is a very small world after all. Never mind; we’ve come through all right. The only man who really has a grouse is Lenin, and I shall not be surprised if he nurses it for the rest of his life. The information we have obtained will cause a sensation.’

  It did.

  CHAPTER SIX

  A Greek Tragedy

  Sir Leonard Wallace descended from the Orient Express at Constantinople, and looked round him as though he were expecting to be met but, before he had a chance of examining the crowd properly, he found himself surrounded by a shouting, importunate horde of baggage porters. The short, stout figure of Batty, his eyes registering horror, his snub nose looking more pugilistic than usual, fought its way through the throng, showering nautical maledictions on the heads of the men who dared to press round his employer.

  ‘I think one porter will be sufficient, Batty,’ observed Sir Leonard, as the round, red face of his confidential servant appeared at his side. ‘We hardly want a hundred.’

  ‘I’ll fix the swabs, sir,’ promised the ex-naval man. ‘’Ere, you,’ he crooked his finger at a fellow, who looked somewhat less villainous than the rest, ‘come with me, and get ready to take luggage aboard. The rest o’ you up anchor. Now then, look smart about it.’

  They may not have understood his language, but there was no mistaking his meaning, especially when he had knocked a few heads together. Never was a traveller arriving in the Sublime Porte so quickly rid of the unwelcome attentions of the railway ‘bandits’, as Sir Leonard Wallace. Batty, having satisfied himself, as he picturesquely put it, that decks were cleared, went off to find the luggage, taking the selected porter with him, and Wallace continued his scrutiny of the travellers, loungers, and people who had come to meet friends. Presently a tall, spare man, with pale face and dark eyes, threaded his way towards him, and raised his hat.

  ‘Hallo, Winslow,’ greeted Sir Leonard, ‘I was beginning to think that you were allowing me to arrive unheralded and unsung. How is Sir George?’

  ‘Desperately ill, sir,’ was the solemn reply. ‘He is not expected to live.’

  Wallace stared at the attaché.

  ‘Not expected to live?’ he repeated. ‘I had no idea it was as bad as that.’

  ‘None of us had, sir, until a few hours ago. He seems to be in terrible agony now, and all the science of Dr Von Bernhardt fails to give him any relief.’

  ‘This is terrible. We had better drive straight to the embassy.’

  ‘I have a car waiting, if you’ll follow me, sir.’

  Batty arrived with the luggage, and was given his instructions; then Sir Leonard, accompanied by Captain Winslow, drove to the house of the British Minister. Without delay he was shown into the sick room, where he found the famous Viennese doctor, a nurse, and Lady Paterson standing silently by the bed, anxiously watching the patient. Although the door was opened and shut very quietly, it was heard, and the tall woman, whose husband lay dying, turned sharply, and looked questioningly at the newcomer. Recognising him she crossed the room towards him, and shook hands. Despite her fifty years Lady Paterson was still a beautiful woman, but now her face was lined and ravaged by sorrow. Wallace was shocked to note her pallor and the tragedy that showed in her eyes. Quietly and simply he expressed his sympathy.

  ‘Is there no hope at all?’ he asked.

  She shook her head, and tears began to course down her cheeks. Stifling a sob, she sank into a chair, and covered her face with her hands. He looked at her compassionately; then turned to the doctor.

  ‘We met once before,’ he whispered. ‘My name is Wallace.’

  ‘I remember you, of course, Sir Leonard,’ acknowledged the celebrated medical man in excellent English. ‘This is a very bad business. He is sleeping now, but the end cannot be long delayed.’

  ‘What is he suffering from?’

  Dr Von Bernhardt looked cautiously round.

  ‘I am not sure,’ he murmured, ‘but I suspect – powdered glass!’

  ‘What?’ In his astonishment and horror, Sir Leonard spoke rather louder than he had intended. ‘Do you mean that?’

  The doctor nodded.

  ‘I am afraid there is but little doubt,’ he remarked.

  ‘Then he is the victim of foul play?’

  ‘It certainly looks very much like it.’

  ‘But who—?’

  Von Bernhardt shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘It is impossible for me to make a guess at the identity of the assassin,’ he observed. ‘But the peritoneum is perforated, and I am very nearly prepared to swear that powdered glass has caused the damage.’

  ‘My God!’ exclaimed Wallace. ‘How perfectly ghastly! Poor beggar, what a death to die! Have you made any investigations, doctor?’

  Von Bernhardt nodded.

  ‘I arrived from Vienna, in response to an urgent message, yesterday morning. The doctor, who was in charge, described the symptoms, and powdered glass at once flashed into my mind. In the afternoon we together examined the food, cooking utensils, and in fact everywhere in the kitchen, but there was not one little trace of what we were looking for anywhere.’

  Sir Leonard looked down at the deadly pale face of the dying Minister, and his heart was torn with pity. He had always known Sir George Paterson as a fine, healthy, robust man, who boasted of the fact that he had never had a day’s illness in his life. It was a terrible tragedy to see him lying there dying, and to be unable to raise a hand to help him.

  ‘Can nothing be done at all, doctor?’ he asked. ‘Would not an operation save him?’

  ‘Impossible now,’ replied the medical man. ‘It might have been possible, if he had been operated upon within a few hours of swallowing the glass. Unfortunately it transpires that he was in pain for three days before he uttered a complaint; then two days more went by before I was sent for. I came at once, but what can I do after a week in such a case as this? The X-ray photographs show a badly punctured peritoneum – no operation could put that right.’

  ‘Poor old Paterson,’ muttered Wallace to himself, and there was an unaccustomed lump in his throat.

  A telegram had arrived at Secret Service headquarters from the Minister stating that he was ill, and asking the Chief of the Intelligence Department to travel to Constantinople, as he had information to give, which he could not impart to anyone of lesser authority. The request had been so unusual that Sir Leonard had left for the Sublime Porte at once. The idea that Sir George Paterson was dying had never entered his head, and the knowledge had come as a great shock. In his mind he was already beginning to connect the two things. It looked very much as though Sir George was being murdered to prevent the information he possessed from being handed over to his government. Possibly the murderer had expected him to die before he could communicate with Great Britain. Sir Leonard looked anxiously at the sufferer, and it seemed to him that there was a change coming over his face. Was he too late? Would Sir George pass away before he could divulge the secret?

  Dr Von Bernhardt bent over and said something to the nurse. She left the room and, after some minutes, returned with the embassy doctor, who had been snatching a brief rest. The two medical men held a brief consultation; then Von Bernhardt crossed the room to the door, beckoning to Wallace as he did so. Outside he took the Englishman by the arm, and they walked along the corridor together.

  ‘I have asked Dr Lansbury to watch Sir George,’ he remarked, ‘while I have a chat with you. First of all I will ask you a question, which you will answer or not according to your discretion. Is there any trouble between Britain and Turkey?’

  ‘None at all,’ replied Sir Leonard promptly. ‘Why?’

  ‘Sir
George sent for you obviously to impart something of importance to you. It is not unreasonable to suppose that he is dying because of the information he possesses. This is Turkey where a man’s life is not weighed in the balance if, by living, he is likely to be dangerous. Thus my question.’

  ‘How did you know Sir George had sent for me?’ demanded Wallace.

  Dr Von Bernhardt smiled.

  ‘He told me so,’ he confided. ‘In fact he has several times asked for news of you today.’

  Wallace frowned. If there were anything very important behind the Ambassador’s request for his presence in Constantinople, it seemed rather injudicious to speak so openly of his expected arrival. Still one must not judge a sick man too harshly.

  ‘You will naturally desire to get to the bottom of this crime,’ went on the famous physician. ‘Your difficulties will be immense if, as I suspect, it has been engineered by Turkey. I brought you out here to tell you of certain suspicions, which have formulated in my mind. Before Sir George was taken ill, his wife was suffering from a bad attack of malaria fever. The doctor, who attended her, is a well-known Turk, Hamid Bey by name. The nurse was the girl who is now looking after Sir George, and it was from her that I obtained the information which roused my suspicions. She told me that Hamid Bey was continually holding whispered conversations with Lady Paterson’s Turkish maid, and that once she saw them both emerging from Sir George’s private study as though they desired to avoid being seen. This may mean nothing, of course, but I pass it on to you for what it is worth.’

  ‘Thanks, doctor. There may be a great deal in it. I wonder why Lady Paterson had the Turk in attendance on her. Where was Lansbury?’

  ‘Ah, that again is curious. Dr Lansbury had been invited to spend a holiday at the estate of Ibrahim Pasha in Brussa, which as you know is sixty miles away in Asia Minor.’

  ‘Strange,’ commented Wallace, ‘but, if there was a plot to entice Lansbury away and get Hamid Bey into the house, how on earth could anybody know that Lady Paterson was about to be taken ill with malaria?’

  Von Bernhardt shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘Germs,’ he murmured pithily.

  The nurse suddenly appeared at the bedroom door, and beckoned to them.

  ‘He is awake,’ she said, when they had hurried up to her, ‘and I’m afraid—’

  The doctor pushed by, and entered the room, closely followed by Sir Leonard. The Ambassador, his eyes wide open, was breathing painfully, but nevertheless managing to smile at his wife, who sat on the other side of the bed holding his hand. An expression of relief crossed his face when he recognised Wallace.

  ‘Thank God you’ve come.’ He spoke in so low a voice that he could hardly be heard.

  ‘I’m very sorry to see you in this state, Paterson,’ murmured Sir Leonard, ‘but you’ll soon be fit again.’

  The Minister smiled wanly.

  ‘Not in this world,’ he whispered. ‘My number’s up, Wallace, and you know it as well as I do.’

  Lady Paterson failed to stifle the sob that broke from her lips and, very tenderly, he patted her hand, and uttered words of comfort to her. At his request he and Wallace were left alone, and he commenced to tell the latter why he had sent for him.

  ‘There is a gigantic plot brewing in—’ a spasm of intense pain shook him from head to foot, and for some moments he was unable to speak. ‘I shall – have to hurry – it seems,’ he gasped at last, and actually forced a smile.

  But a further and more prolonged paroxysm gripped him, and Wallace rose to call the doctors. Somehow, though, Sir George managed to find strength enough to cling to his friend’s hand. His lips were moving painfully, and the Chief of the Secret Service bent down until his ear was close to the dying man’s lips. At first he heard nothing; then came:

  ‘Secret drawer – my wife’s escritoire – all information – notebook.’

  Sir Leonard nodded to show that he had heard, and called back the medical attendants. The Minister soon afterwards drifted into a state of unconsciousness from which he never recovered. He died three hours later.

  Lady Paterson, who had risen from her sick-bed to look after her husband before she had fully recovered from her attack of malaria, was prostrated with grief. Dr Von Bernhardt feared a complete breakdown, and ordered her absolute quiet. The result was that Sir Leonard was unable to ask her about the secret drawer in her escritoire until two days later, when, having returned from the funeral, he was given permission to see her for a few minutes. In the meantime he had not been idle. He had questioned everybody in the embassy carefully, and at length, but had been unable to elicit anything in the nature of a clue from which he could form a theory. A post-mortem examination was held, and proved that Dr Von Bernhardt had been correct. Sir George Paterson had been killed by powdered glass. The police were informed, and commenced their investigations, but Wallace preferred to work on his own and, therefore, conducted his inquiries privately.

  Mustapha Kemal Pasha called in person to express his deep sympathy and abhorrence at the nature of the tragedy. Sir Leonard was very much impressed by the personality of the Turkish President, his undoubted sincerity and strength of character. He felt that he had seldom before met a man of such honest and statesmanlike qualities, and the conversation they had together left him feeling that Turkey was indeed fortunate to possess such a man at the head of affairs.

  ‘This terrible crime has shaken me to the core, Sir Leonard,’ he observed, as he was taking his departure. ‘No stone will be left unturned to bring the murderer to justice. I hope and pray that he will not prove to be a Turk, but I very much fear that it will be so. It will be a great blot on the honour of my country, if he is.’

  When he had gone, Sir Leonard had a talk with the nurse. It had been impossible to interview her before on account of her duties. She was a beautiful Armenian girl with dark flashing eyes, and was anxious to tell him all she knew. It was very little, however, and added nothing to what Von Bernhardt had already told him. As a result of their conversation he sent for Lady Paterson’s Turkish maid. A scrutiny of her face, when she entered the room where he was awaiting her, left him with no personal suspicions against her. She certainly had not the appearance of a girl endeavouring to hide a guilty secret. He questioned her thoroughly, attempted to trap her, but she answered him with apparent honesty, and emerged from her ordeal triumphant, leaving him a very puzzled man when, at last, he dismissed her.

  A meticulous search of the kitchens and domestic quarters, a thorough cross-examination of the cook and his mate, only succeeded in increasing his perplexity. There was not a single fact or thread to suggest a line of inquiry, the story of the nurse concerning the Turkish doctor and the maid being far too nebulous to be of any real help. There was nothing for it but to wait until he could obtain Lady Paterson’s permission to go to her escritoire and open the secret drawer. When eventually he saw her, and was told how to find the hidden receptacle and open it, he hastened to the writing-desk in her boudoir, with a sense of great relief. At last he would be able to place his hands on something definite, perhaps even discover the identity of the assassin. Following the instructions given him he had no difficulty in locating the drawer. It was rather clever of old Paterson to think of hiding the precious notebook in his wife’s escritoire. Nobody would think of searching there for it. He opened the drawer and looked in. An exclamation of baffled annoyance escaped him. It was empty!

  He subjected the writing-table to a very thorough search, but it was of no use. The notebook had gone. He went out into the garden and, finding a secluded spot, sat down on a stone seat to think things over. This looked like being a problem beyond his powers to solve. If he had only had an inkling of the nature of the information Sir George had wished to impart to him, there would have been something to go upon. It should not have been very difficult to trace the murderer once he knew something of the story the Ambassador had been so anxious to relate to him. As it was he would be compelled to continue what seemed a hope
less search for the assassin and, if he were lucky enough to find the man, work on from that point in an effort to discover what had become of the notebook. He smiled grimly to himself, as he filled and lit his pipe.

  ‘I certainly seem to have struck the very deuce of a riddle,’ he murmured.

  He had a further interview with Lady Paterson, and told her of his failure to find anything in the secret drawer. She was unable to help him, had not even known that Sir George had hidden a notebook in the escritoire.

  ‘Somebody must have watched him put it there,’ she said, ‘and extracted it.’

  ‘Obviously,’ nodded Sir Leonard, ‘but who? Did he ever mention to you, or hint in any way, that he possessed important intelligence which he intended passing on to the government?’

  She shook her head and, noticing that any mention of her husband only distressed her, he forbore from questioning her further, and departed in search of Captain Winslow. The latter was engaged in his office, and looked up eagerly as Wallace entered.