Wallace of the Secret Service

by Alexander Wilson

Brien introduced him to the Afghan envoy, who apparently spoke French as well as he did English.

  ‘This is the gentleman to whom you owe your rescue, General,’ he added.

  ‘Ah, no,’ protested the Comte. ‘I have not done much.’ He walked across to the monoplane and busied himself with the engine for some time; then returned to the others. ‘It will require two hours’ work before she will be ready to fly again,’ he informed them.

  ‘You think of everything, Comte,’ returned Brien.

  ‘So do you, my friend, except in one particular.’ The Frenchman smiled at him slyly.

  ‘What is that?’

  ‘You have a great advantage over me. You know my name, but I do not know yours.’

  Brien apologised and hastened to repair the error.

  ‘Now everything is OK, as you say in English,’ cried the Frenchman gaily. ‘I suggest we now go to Paris.’

  ‘I hardly like trespassing on your kindness further,’ said Brien. ‘You must want to return to Marseilles.’

  ‘No, no. If you wish I will take you to London.’

  ‘I wouldn’t think of such a thing. I am already in your debt to such an extent that—’

  ‘Mon Dieu!’ interrupted the Comte. ‘I always thought Englishmen did not like the fuss. You, my friend Brien, are too much like a Frenchman. Perhaps you would like to walk to Paris with Monsieur the General?’

  Brien laughed.

  ‘Not quite,’ he said, ‘but you informed me that were near Melun, and—’

  ‘Yes, but Melun is three miles away, and I do not think there is a house nearer than a mile and a half. I know because I once made a forced landing in this very field.’

  ‘That accounts for the revolver shots not being heard.’

  ‘As you say, that accounts for the revolver shots not being heard. Climb in, Messieurs; my hunger is so great that I shall presently feel cannibal propensities coming upon me.’

  Humming cheerfully to himself, he threw the spanner and two revolvers into the cockpit, and followed them in. Twenty minutes later the Gloire d’ Avignon landed gracefully at Le Bourget, the three travellers climbed out, and made a beeline for the restaurant. As he was still wearing evening dress, Brien kept on his flying coat, but that made no difference to his appetite. Hungry as he was himself, Comte de Vérac failed to equal his English friend as a trencherman, and expressed his admiration almost enviously.

  Directly the meal was over Brien interviewed the manager of the Imperial Airways Company and, after explaining who he was and showing his credentials, was assured that one of the smaller air liners would be placed at his disposal as soon as he was ready to cross to England. He then despatched a long telegram to Sir Leonard Wallace, after which he took a cordial farewell of the young Frenchman who had rendered him such signal assistance. The latter eagerly accepted an invitation to visit his new friend in London, and they parted on that understanding, each having formed a sincere attachment for the other.

  Piloted by a man who had been in the service of Imperial Airways since the inauguration of the company, and with its two passengers, the Handley Page machine rose smoothly, and commenced its journey to London. The Comte de Vérac watched its departure, and was turning away towards his own machine, when he became aware of a man, his right arm in a sling, standing some distance from him, also gazing up at the air liner. The Comte’s eyes were good, and immediately he recognised the fellow whom Brien had wounded. At once he walked rapidly towards him, but the conspirator saw him coming and, jumping into a car standing close by, was swiftly driven away. The Comte de Vérac shrugged his shoulders, and lit a cigarette.

  ‘I hope no further mischief has been attempted,’ he murmured.

  On the previous evening about the same time that Major Brien was dressing for dinner in his room at the Hôtel de Louvre et Paix in Marseilles, Sir Leonard Wallace left his office in Whitehall. It was not often he stayed quite so late; but he had had an exceedingly busy day and was, in consequence, feeling rather tired as he emerged from the building. His car was nowhere to be seen and, with a frown of annoyance, he signalled to a taxicab standing on a rank a little way down the road. The car drove up to him and, giving directions to the driver, he stepped inside, and closed the door. At once he became aware that the taxi was already occupied, and he made a quick movement to retreat, when a hand grasped his arm in a grip of steel.

  ‘The slightest attempt to get out, or to attract any attention, and you will be a dead man,’ said a low, sinister voice.

  The car was already on the move, threading its way through the traffic. Wallace accepted the situation and, with a shrug of his shoulders, sat down, and turned to confront his captor. In the dim light he could see a powerful-looking individual in a suit of some dark material. Over his nose and mouth was what looked like a small gas mask; a bowler hat was drawn low on his forehead, but not low enough to shield a pair of glittering eyes which, in the half light, had an intense, piercing quality about them.

  ‘What is the meaning of this outrage?’ asked Sir Leonard quietly.

  His companion laughed.

  ‘I never thought,’ he returned, ‘that it would be so easy to trap the great Sir Leonard Wallace. Friends of mine have tried it before, only to fail – I think they must have been great fools.’

  His voice was muffled by the mask he wore, but he spoke very good English with little trace of a foreign accent.

  ‘You have trapped me certainly,’ observed Wallace. ‘The question is; can you keep me now you’ve got me?’

  ‘I do not think there is much doubt about that. I am holding a little tube in my hand containing a new and very deadly poison gas. The slightest movement on your part will mean your sudden decease.’

  ‘That is interesting,’ commented Sir Leonard, ‘but the – er – unhappy event of your being compelled to release that gas, how will you protect yourself?’

  ‘I am prepared, as you see,’ was the reply.

  ‘But as yet you have not explained why you have found it necessary to kidnap me.’

  ‘It is urgent that you should be out of the way for the next thirty-six hours. At the end of that time you will be released and, if you behave yourself, no harm will come to you.’

  ‘I presume I am indebted to you for the fact that my car was not waiting to take me home?’

  ‘Exactly. A messenger dressed in government uniform told your chauffeur that you would not be requiring him this evening, and he drove away. If he had not, it would have made no difference – we had other plans.’

  ‘And where are you taking me?’

  ‘To a very quiet spot outside London. You will be quite comfortable there.’

  For a time there was silence. The taxicab made its way through Trafalgar Square, up Charing Cross Road, crossed Shaftesbury Avenue, and was approaching Camden Town before Sir Leonard spoke again; then:

  ‘I am afraid you are having your journey for nothing,’ he remarked quietly.

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked his captor suspiciously.

  ‘You perhaps notice that my left hand is in my overcoat pocket? In that hand is a revolver which is pointed at you. I am quite able to shoot through a pocket, and a bullet is even quicker than gas. It will save a lot of trouble, if you stop the taxi and permit me to alight.’

  The man leant back in his corner, and laughed sardonically.

  ‘A very good bluff,’ he retorted, ‘but I happen to know that your left arm is artificial.’

  ‘Nevertheless I have a revolver in that pocket, and it is pointed at you.’

  ‘Then it would be safer for you if I relieved you of it.’

  He leant across the car, his right hand searching for Wallace’s left.

  ‘You notice,’ he threatened, ‘that I am holding this tube close to your face. If you resist, I will press the nozzle, and then – God help you!’

  The fellow’s hand had reached Wallace’s coat pocket, was searching for the way in when with a mighty blow of his right fist, the Englishman st
ruck the deadly tube upwards and sent the other staggering back. At once a strong aromatic odour assailed his nostrils and, as he flung open the door, he felt his senses reeling. He sprang from the taxi, and rolled over in the gutter. Quickly he was surrounded by pedestrians. The taxicab went on and disappeared in the distance.

  In a state of semi-consciousness Wallace was half-carried, half-led into a chemist’s shop by the sympathetic onlookers who had raised him from the road. It was some time before he fully regained his senses. He was subjected to all kinds of questions, but avoided them adroitly, merely stating that he had fallen from the car. At last he was allowed to depart in another taxi, obtained for him by a very puzzled policeman, first assuring himself that it was quite innocent before entering it.

  He was sick and dizzy that evening, and found it necessary to call in his doctor to whom he told the story. The latter prescribed for him, and, after a night’s rest, he felt fit again. He went to his office at the usual time, and again had an exceptionally busy morning. He was surprised that no news had been received from Brien and, as time went on, began to feel anxious. It was not until half past four that the long expected telegram arrived; then, as he read it, he whistled. He immediately sent for Cousins.

  ‘Major Brien has been having adventures,’ he informed the little man, ‘but everything seems all right now. Still one never knows. He is coming across with the envoy in a special air liner, and I think you and I had better meet it.’

  ‘“From the clouds he came; His mantle—”’ commenced Cousins.

  ‘No time for that now,’ smiled Wallace. ‘They will arrive in Croydon before we can get there, if we don’t hurry.’

  Taking precautions to prevent a repetition of his unpleasant experience of the previous night, and making sure that the car was not followed, Sir Leonard, with the little Secret Service man, was driven rapidly to the Croydon Airport. They had barely arrived, when the machine, in which Brien and the Afghan were travelling, emerged from clouds and, circling round, glided down and came to a stop twenty yards away. The pilot climbed out of his seat, but there was no sign from the interior and with troubled countenances, Wallace and Cousins ran to the aeroplane. They opened the door, and at once staggered back, their hands covering the lower parts of their faces.

  ‘Quick!’ shouted Cousins to a mechanic standing by. ‘Fetch a doctor and an ambulance. Hurry!’

  Two men could be seen stretched out on the floor of the saloon, and Wallace recognised the same odour as that in the taxi, when he had so nearly lost his life the previous evening. People in the vicinity were beginning to cough, and were compelled to draw back to a safe distance.

  Tying handkerchiefs round their noses and mouths, and holding their breath, the two Secret Service men dashed into the interior, and drew one of the prone figures into the air. Willing hands relieved them of their burden and they returned for the other, emerging the second time with their senses reeling, but with the unconscious envoy in their arms. By this time two doctors and an ambulance had arrived, and the medical men knelt down and conducted an examination. Then one stood up. He turned to Sir Leonard, whose face was drawn with horror and anxiety, and pointed to the body of the Afghan general.

  ‘This gentleman is dead,’ he stated. ‘The other is still alive, but we’ll have to get him to hospital at once.’

  ‘Will he recover?’ asked Wallace hoarsely.

  ‘There is a good chance,’ was the reply. ‘They have been gassed with a solution of cacodyl isocyanide, one of the most deadly gases known to science.’

  Brien was rushed to hospital, and a message sent to his wife. The body of the dead envoy was taken into a private room in the aerodrome. His clothes were searched, and Wallace took possession of all papers found upon him. As far as he could ascertain there was nothing of importance among them. It took a long time for the gas to disperse but, having obtained masks, Sir Leonard and his assistant entered the aeroplane and made a thorough examination. The first thing they discovered was an object, something like a stylo pen, lying on the floor. It was evident that it was from this the gas had been emitted. Nothing else was in the saloon. Apparently the envoy had brought nothing with him in the way of baggage. What had happened to Brien’s was a puzzle, as was the fact, which Sir Leonard had noticed when going hastily through his friend’s pockets before he was taken away, that he was in evening dress. Wallace had still to learn of the adventure that had befallen Brien in Marseilles.

  The pilot was questioned, but no information of any importance was elicited from him. He had noticed nothing in the least unusual either at Le Bourget or en route. With his mind centred on the supposition that it might have been possible for the pilot to have sprayed the gas into the saloon, and then thrown in the tube, Wallace cross-questioned the man on all points in an endeavour to get him to give himself away, but his answers were unhesitating and clear, and it became obvious that he was telling the truth. He had been searched, but nothing incriminating had been found on him.

  Sir Leonard left the waiting room a very puzzled man.

  ‘How in the name of all that’s wonderful can they have been gassed and robbed in mid-air?’ he murmured to himself, as he returned to the aeroplane.

  A mechanic who had been examining the machine, looked up as he approached.

  ‘How many parachutes did this plane carry, sir?’ he asked.

  Sir Leonard looked at him vacantly, his thoughts elsewhere. Then suddenly the significance of the man’s question struck him.

  ‘What’s that?’ he demanded so sharply that the mechanic looked at him in surprise.

  ‘I was asking about the parachutes, sir,’ he muttered a trifle resentfully.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, it seemed to me curious that the bus should only have one parachute. There are attachments for three.’

  ‘By Jove!’ exclaimed Wallace, and made his way back to the waiting room. ‘How many parachutes did you have when you left Paris?’ he demanded of the pilot.

  ‘Two, sir.’

  ‘You’re sure of that?’

  ‘I am certain,’ was the reply.

  ‘You did not see anybody drop from your plane?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Can you remember feeling a jar of any sort?’

  The man thought for a moment.

  ‘None whatever, sir,’ he said at last.

  Sir Leonard hurriedly returned to the aeroplane, and found Cousins still inside. He looked round the interior and frowned.

  ‘I’ve come to the conclusion,’ he remarked almost to himself, ‘that the fellow who committed this crime was hidden in here when the plane left Paris, but where the dickens could he have concealed himself? There’s hardly room to hide a dog, let alone a man.’

  Cousins looked reflectively at a locker under the couch. His face went into hundreds of creases indicative of deep thought.

  ‘It couldn’t have been there,’ he murmured, ‘and there’s nowhere else. There isn’t even a cubby hole for luggage. It’s out of the question to think that he was standing here awaiting them, I suppose, sir?’

  ‘Of course it is,’ snapped Wallace. ‘If they had found him here, they would have handed him over to the police at once; they wouldn’t have taken him with them.’

  ‘Unless Major Brien thought it best to bring him across, sir.’

  ‘Oh, nonsense!’ exclaimed Sir Leonard impatiently.

  ‘Well, there’s only that locker, sir, and that could only contain a child, or – or a dwarf.’

  ‘Ah!’ Wallace’s eyes gleamed.

  Cousins looked at his chief in astonishment.

  ‘You don’t mean to say that you think—’ he commenced.

  ‘I’m trying to think of all feasibilities. We’ve got to get those documents back, if it is humanly possible, and I dare not dismiss any theory, even if it does sound absurd.’

  ‘Perhaps Major Brien has the documents on him,’ hazarded Cousins.

  ‘He hasn’t. I searched his pockets before he was carried
way. Did you examine that locker, Cousins?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ replied the little man. ‘There wasn’t even a pin in it. But suppose there was someone in the aeroplane, could he have opened the door at that altitude, when the machine was probably going a hundred miles an hour?’

  ‘Yes. It happened once before when a famous financier was killed.’

  ‘Of course; I recollect.’

  ‘And if I remember rightly the pilot noticed nothing unusual on that occasion?’ murmured Sir Leonard.

  He went outside, and sat on an overturned box, his pipe clenched between his teeth. As he sat there one of the doctors drove up in a car.

  ‘I came to let you know that Major Brien will recover,’ he announced.

  ‘Thank God!’ murmured Wallace fervently. ‘It’s decent of you to come, doctor,’ he added gratefully. ‘Is he conscious?’

  ‘No. I’m afraid it’ll be a long time before he comes round. However he’s safe now.’

  With a smile he drove away.

  ‘It is certain I shall not be able to get any information out of Billy,’ muttered Wallace, rising to his feet and knocking out his pipe. ‘There is just one slender chance, and I’ll have to take it.’

  He crossed to the wireless station, and for ten minutes was engaged in sending out messages. It was some time before he received any answers, and he fumed with impatience when four unsatisfactory replies trickled back across the ether. At last came one that brought a smile to his lips, and a faint flush to his cheeks.

  It was from a small coasting steamer, and informed him that a parachute had been seen to fall from an aeroplane in mid-channel. As far as the crew of the steamer could make out, a large motorboat had been standing by which later had set a course apparently for Holland.

  Wallace waited only long enough to telephone to the Air Force Depot at Dover; then, commandeering the fastest aeroplane in the Croydon aerodrome, he and Cousins flew to the seaside town. Arrived there, he found a flying-boat awaiting him, and a somewhat worried squadron leader trying not to look anxious. He saluted Sir Leonard with great respect, however.

  ‘Did you mean what you said about the machine gun, sir?’