The Mystery of Tunnel 51

by Alexander Wilson

  ‘Well, let us hope that Wallace will not come out on a wild goose chase! He’s got the job of his life before him!’

  ‘Of course you will give him every assistance, Colonel?’

  ‘Oh, I suppose so!’ He said ungraciously. ‘But if he can do any more than the Indian Police, I’ll eat my hat!’

  ‘Hasty words,’ smiled Muir, who had by now fully recovered his good humour. ‘Remember you are dealing with the most brilliant brain in England in his particular line, and you may be called upon to eat that hat after all!’

  ‘India isn’t England,’ snapped Sanders; ‘and he’ll find everything against him out here.’

  ‘Oh well, he knows India pretty well, so we’ll wait and see, to use a platitude … By the way, where is Williams?’

  ‘In Simla! He went up this morning and will be back in time for the inquest tomorrow. Did you remember to communicate with his C.O.? He told me you were going to do so!’

  ‘Yes – I left instructions for one of the secretaries to get through and arrange matters.’

  The next morning the inquest went very much as the Deputy Commissioner had prophesied. Care was taken that no mention of the plans should be made and to the ordinary mind it appeared as though the murder was motiveless. Sir Henry told how the light had gone out, and that after it relit again and the car had left the tunnel, he turned to make some remark to Major Elliott, and discovered that he was dead; how he had ordered the rail motor to stop and had drawn the attention of Captain Williams and Mr Hartley to the dead man. Hartley described how he had clambered over the back of the seat and found the wound between the shoulder blades, obviously made by a thin-bladed knife. Captain Williams corroborated the testimony of the other two. All three witnesses agreed that the failure of the light must have been due to a loose lamp that had been jolted off and on again, and all agreed that the murderer had been waiting his opportunity in the tunnel, and had taken advantage of the mishap to the lighting to do his evil work and escape. The driver of the car, who was in a state of abject terror and almost wept as he gave his evidence, declared that the failure of a lamp through jolting was quite a common occurrence; and when sternly asked by the Coroner if he had touched the switch, swore by all the gods that he had not done so.

  The doctor stated that he had been called in to examine the murdered man, who was lying in a room at Barog station, whither he had been carried from the rail motor, and found that he had been stabbed in the back between the shoulder blades, and that the blow was driven downwards, obviously by someone standing behind Major Elliott, with such force that it had pierced the heart, and death must have been instantaneous. The Coroner asked several pertinent questions and summed up the case very lucidly. The jury, without retiring, brought in a verdict that ‘Major Elliott had been done to death by some person or persons unknown.’

  As Colonel Sanders and Sir Henry Muir left the building in which the inquest had been held, the former looked very glum.

  ‘I wish to Goodness you had gone down in a private car, as I advised,’ he grunted.

  ‘I wish we had, Colonel,’ said Muir. ‘But it’s too late wishing now. I feel morally responsible for Elliott’s death.’

  ‘Don’t be a fool!’ said the Commissioner brusquely. ‘Elliott himself was not any keener than you to go that way. Well, I suppose I had better let that driver go. You three make it impossible to hold him any longer.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Oh, with your damnable shaky lamp evidence.’

  ‘Then you still think that the light was interfered with?’

  ‘I do! But I’m hanged if I know how. I’m going through that rail motor inch by inch, even if I have to pull it to pieces, to see if I can find out why the light went out. There’s one thing I am convinced about.’

  ‘And that is?’

  ‘The murderer did not board the train in the tunnel, but was in the car all the time, hidden on the floor behind you and Elliott!’

  ‘Great Scott! … And how does that theory help?’

  It doesn’t!’ snapped the Colonel. He held out his hand. ‘Well, goodbye, Muir, there’s no reason for you to stop up here – you’ll know how things go from the Viceroy.’

  He shook hands and turned away, then swung back again.

  ‘And – er – Muir,’ he said. ‘I shall be glad when the most brilliant brain in England arrives in India!’ He smiled faintly and was gone.

  After bidding farewell to Captain Williams – who was returning at once to his regiment – and to the doctor, Muir drove back to Delhi. He arrived there a very tired man and went to bed early that night with the intention of having at least ten hours’ sleep, and he went with a feeling of great hope, for on his arrival the Viceroy had shown him a cablegram from the India Office, and it read:

  Sir Leonard Wallace left early this afternoon for India by aeroplane. Hopes to arrive within five days! – DALSTON.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Sir Leonard Wallace

  A luxurious car skirted the traffic in Trafalgar Square, swung along the Mall and up St James’s Street, and presently stopped in front of an imposing mansion in Piccadilly. The door opened and a slightly built man of middle height alighted and held out his hand to assist a woman. The man gave the chauffeur some instructions and then followed his companion up the steps of the house. The door was opened by a solemn, elderly butler whose every movement bespoke dignity and importance; his white side-whiskers whispered of responsibility, and his bow was the very epitome of what a butler’s bow should be. The woman, she seemed little more than a girl, smiled and passed in. The man, more leisurely, stood at the door for a moment and gazed appreciatively across the Park where the trees, in all the glory of their autumn tints, gave a warm sense of colour to their surroundings. Then he turned and walked quietly inside.

  ‘There are many worse places than London, Sims,’ he said, as he handed his coat and hat to the butler.

  ‘Don’t you think so?’

  ‘I do indeed, Sir Leonard,’ replied the man in a deep sepulchral voice.

  ‘H’m! And I suppose the body is still upstairs?’ imitating the solemn voice.

  ‘Body, sir! What body?’ A slight twitch of the left eyebrow was the only indication of surprise Sims permitted himself.

  ‘The same old body! I’ve often wondered when you are going to bury it.’

  The butler had by this time grasped the point, and he bowed, if possible, more deeply than ever. Sir Leonard strolled along the wide, beautifully panelled hall, and stopped by a great fireplace where a fire blazed merrily away.

  ‘By Jove! You don’t seem to be worried by coal strikes, Sims,’ he remarked. ‘There seems no shortage of coal in this house.’

  ‘Certainly not, sir! I hope I always do my duty!’

  ‘In spite of miners and the dole and Russian money and all the rest of it, eh?’

  Again the butler bowed.

  ‘You’re a paragon, Sims. I wish you weren’t sometimes. I suppose you were human once?’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘I said, “I suppose you were human once”. Yes, you were! Do you remember keeping wicket during a certain famous cricket match at Kimmeridge years ago?’

  Sims actually smiled – it was a fleeting sort of a smile, but still a smile for all that.

  ‘I have never forgotten that match, Sir Leonard, nor, if I may be allowed to say so, the exciting events that took place about that time.’

  ‘No, I suppose not – neither have I!’ He looked rather ruefully at his left arm, which to the ordinary gaze appeared quite normal except for the glove which he wore on the hand and which was seldom removed. But that arm was an artificial one! He had lost it through the exciting events mentioned by the butler. Coming home from France with a badly wounded arm, he had spent a holiday on the coast of Dorset whilst convalescing, and there, with the aid of some friends and, later on, under the auspices of the Home Office, discovered a German submarine base and the headquarters of a number of spies. Four submarines a
nd practically all the spies had been captured, and it was when Sir Leonard and his assistants had cornered the chief of the German secret agents that he was again shot in the arm, as a consequence of which it had to be amputated.

  Great excitement had been caused throughout the country by the capture. Honours were showered on Sir Leonard, who was then plain Major, and his companions, the chief of whom was his great friend Major, then Captain, William Brien. The two of them had been cavalry officers, but as a result of their work they were attached to the Intelligence Department and now several years after the War, Sir Leonard was head of the Department and held undisputed sway, with Major Brien as his second in command.

  Dressed in the most fastidious taste, Sir Leonard looked the picture of indolent ease as he lounged in front of the great fire. By no means handsome, he possessed a most attractive face, with humorous curves, which the majority of people found irresistible.

  He never got excited, was seldom known to lose his temper, had the most easy-going disposition in the world, and, to quote Major Brien, ‘would probably light his pipe and take his ease if the end of the world had come.’ His utter nonchalance exasperated some people, but offended none.

  He took out a pipe now and cleverly using his artificial hand filled and lighted it.

  ‘This old limb’s almost as useful as the real one was, Sims,’ he remarked. ‘Anyhow we don’t miss it much, do we!’

  The old servitor shook his head sorrowfully.

  ‘It was a very sad business, Sir Leonard,’ he said. ‘Very sad indeed I—’

  ‘Oh, go away, you old croaker! By the way where did Lady Wallace go?’

  ‘Up to her boudoir, I believe, Sir Leonard.’

  The other nodded, and Sims turned, and crossing the wide hall as silently as a ghost, disappeared through a green baize door at the end, which obviously led to his pantry and the other domestic rooms.

  Sir Leonard strolled up the wide carpeted stairs. Halfway up he stared reflectively at a beautiful stained glass window, whereon were pictured stirring events, in the life of St George, who had a penchant apparently for destroying dragons.

  ‘St George,’ murmured Wallace sotto voce, ‘yours was a pretty straightforward sort of job – there’s nothing very subtle about a dragon.’

  He smiled whimsically and continued his easy way to his wife’s boudoir, where he knocked gently on the door. A sweet voice bade him come in and he entered. A dazzling picture of smiling womanhood looked up at him.

  Lady Wallace was just thirty and looked no more than twenty-three or four. She had the clear complexion of a young girl, glorious hair of a rich chestnut colour, which fell in natural waves round her head, big, deep, blue eyes, a slightly tip-tilted nose and a cupid’s bow mouth, with scarlet lips which put the finishing touch to one of the most beautiful faces in London. And with all her beauty Lady Wallace was clever, sweet and charming, and she was as popular with her own sex as she was with her men friends. She adored her husband, as he adored her, and they were consequently an ideally happy pair, who jointly worshipped their small son Adrian, a merry little fellow of six.

  She was seated now, resting, in a deep armchair in front of the fire. Her room was a perfect setting for such a woman. The predominant note was blue and silver. The walls were a pale blue, the carpet a slightly darker shade. Curtains of pale blue and silver hung before the windows and doors. The tables were Sheraton, upon which the ornaments were, in the majority of cases, silver. A few priceless etchings hung on the walls and a couple of beautiful Persian rugs lay on the floor.

  She laid her head back in her chair and smiled at her husband.

  ‘Why the knock, dear?’ she asked.

  ‘I have just been looking at St George,’ replied Sir Leonard, and seated himself opposite her in the other armchair.

  ‘What has St George got to do with it?’

  ‘He was a gentleman!’

  She laughed.

  ‘That window seems to have a peculiar fascination for you, Leonard,’ she said. ‘I’ve often caught you staring at it.’

  ‘It has! By the way St George didn’t smoke! Do you mind my smoking in here?’

  She laughed again, a silvery peal that was much admired by the maids, who all tried to copy it.

  ‘Have you made up your mind to imitate the Saint?’

  ‘Oh, no! He was a woman hater, and I’m not.’

  She stared at him amusedly.

  ‘St George a woman hater! That’s the first I’ve heard of it.’

  ‘Well, a certain type of woman. He was always killing dragons!’

  ‘Oh, Leonard! And at your time of life? You should be ashamed of yourself.’

  ‘What do you mean by my time of life? You’ll be telling me I want a bath-chair next. Let me see, how old am I?’

  ‘Thirty-four!’

  ‘Good gracious! I thought I was ageing fast. It’s very ancient, isn’t it?’

  ‘Very!’ she smiled. ‘You’ll be thinking of retiring soon, dear, I suppose.’ Then she looked serious. ‘I almost wish you would,’ she added.

  He looked surprised.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Well you know the horrible risks you run sometimes! Think of that affair in Egypt when—’ She shuddered.

  He smiled.

  ‘That sort of thing doesn’t happen very often, Molly dear,’ he said. ‘As a rule I sit in a large office like a staid, respectable business man and give orders.’

  ‘Yes, but there are the other times and – I hate them!’ She spoke vehemently. ‘It’s very wonderful to think that you are the head of the Secret Service, and at your age, but—’

  ‘Please don’t call it the Secret Service – Intelligence Department is so much nicer, and it does suggest that one has brains whether one really has or not!’

  ‘Well, Intelligence Department then! But I’m always afraid when you go away on something yourself, in case there is – an accident.’

  He stood up, crossed to her chair and kissed her tenderly.

  ‘Bless you,’ he said. ‘You’re a wife in a million. But get rid of those worries, dear; I seldom go into danger.’

  ‘I know you,’ she replied. ‘Oh, I know you so well.’

  At that moment the door burst open and a small boy, with sparkling blue eyes, rosy cheeks and brown curly hair, ran into the room. He held a toy pistol, and pointed it at his father, and in a belt were two toy swords, while he wore a three-cornered hat upon his head.

  ‘Hands up!’ he cried. ‘I am a wicked, bad pirate!’

  In a simulation of terror Sir Leonard dropped on his knees by his wife’s chair. He held his hands above his head and shivered.

  ‘Don’t shoot, sir,’ he pleaded. ‘I’m only a poor sailor man.’ He looked sideways at his wife. ‘I was never in greater danger than this, Molly,’ he added. ‘Just look at the bloodthirsty look in that villain’s eye. He’ll make me walk the plank; I know he will!’

  With a shriek of delight the child jumped on his father, and for some minutes the two rolled on the floor to the imminent danger of several articles of furniture close by. At last Sir Leonard sat up, and perched the child on his knee.

  ‘Now, my lad!’ he said. ‘The wicked, bad pirate is dead.’

  ‘Oh no, he isn’t,’ said the boy. ‘I’ll show you, shall I?’

  ‘Not just now! Attendez, monsieur!’

  ‘What does that mean, Daddy?’

  ‘Your attention, sir, if you please!’

  ‘Is this another game?’

  ‘Not yet! I want to know what you have been doing all the afternoon!’

  ‘I’ve been in the Park with Alice, of course,’ said the little fellow with disgust. ‘It’s not fair to a chap to let him out with a woman like that; she’s got no go in her!’

  His mother and father laughed delightedly.

  ‘It’s all very well to laugh,’ he went on, and they laughed the more, then he brightened up. ‘I met Uncle Billy and Auntie Phyllis,’ he said.

  ‘Where, de
ar?’ asked Lady Wallace.

  ‘Near the bandstand, Mummy – but there wasn’t any band.’

  ‘No, dear, not at this time of the year. Was Auntie Phyllis glad to see you?’

  ‘Of course, she always is. Although she’s got quite enough children of her own,’ he added reflectively.

  Sir Leonard laughed heartily.

  ‘By Jove!’ he said. ‘I must tell Billy that,’ and he went into another roar of laughter. The boy rose to his feet.

  ‘I s’pose I must go and have tea,’ he said, ‘or Alice will be cross. She’s very difficult that woman. If I was you, Mummy—’

  ‘“Were”, dear, not “was”.’

  ‘If I were you, Mummy, I wouldn’t be afraid of her! I’d show her that I was – were – was mistress and tell her to go!’

  With this parthian shot he went out of the room followed by a further burst of laughter from his parents. He was back in a minute looking eagerly at Sir Leonard.

  ‘Daddy,’ he said, ‘when I’ve had my tea, will you come to the den and play pirates with me?’ He always called his nursery ‘the den’, in imitation of his father’s name for the study.

  Sir Leonard nodded, and the child ran off with a happy laugh.

  ‘I loved that bit about Phyllis having enough children of her own, didn’t you?’ said Lady Wallace.

  ‘Rather! It was delightful! I mustn’t forget to tell Billy that tomorrow. Adrian’s quite right you know, dear. I think three in seven years is pretty good going!’

  ‘Leonard!’

  He laughed.

  ‘Well, we’ve had one child in twelve years and he’s had three in seven. Billy apparently thinks it is time something was done to improve the birth rate!’

  ‘Oh, Leonard, how awful you are!’

  There was silence for a moment. She gazed into the fire and he looked at her, devotedly, proudly, noting the warm beauty of her, the slender lines of her graceful figure, silently thanking his Creator for giving into his care such a glorious example of perfect womanhood, and wondering as he always wondered in the humility of his great heart, why she was his. Presently she turned to him, a little shyly, and put her hands into his.