Wallace at Bay (2 page)

Preston rose to his feet feeling exceedingly shamefaced and foolish.

‘May I know who the man is, and how I have transgressed?’ he asked diffidently.

Brien regarded him for a moment.

‘I’ll tell you this much,’ he returned presently. ‘He is a member of an exceedingly dangerous band of anarchists. We have been searching for him for weeks. Yesterday we at last found him, and have been trailing him ever since, in the hope that he would lead us to his companions. Your irresponsible action has caused him to take alarm – your very words, unfortunately enough, were calculated to give him warning that he was known and being trailed. He and his companions now, whether we find them or not, will no longer bask in the comfortable sense of security in which I have reason to believe they fondly imagined themselves. They will be very much on the alert, and our job will consequently be rendered a thousand times more difficult.’

‘I’m terribly sorry,’ apologised Preston.

‘So am I,’ returned Major Brien, dryly.

‘It was a remarkable coincidence that I should choose that very man – the millionth chance in fact.’

‘If you were a member of this service,’ put in Captain Shannon, ‘you would quickly learn that there are no such odds as a million to one against anything, or a thousand to one, for that matter. I
should be beastly trite, but perfectly truthful, if I added that it is the unexpected that generally turns up.’

‘That is true,’ nodded Brien; ‘to us nothing is unexpected. Perhaps it will help you in your future career, Mr Preston, if you remember that. Goodbye.’

Shannon escorted the actor to the lift. From there until he walked out of the front door he was passed on from one man to another, being hardly ever out of sight of at least two. He learnt more than one lesson that afternoon he never forgot. Perhaps that was one of the reasons why his acting improved so tremendously.

Directly his visitor had departed Major Brien walked along the corridor to the room of Sir Leonard Wallace, and reported what had occurred. The Chief of the British Secret Service listened without interruption until the end. Except that he had frowned slightly at the information concerning the anarchist’s escape, he showed no emotion of any sort. In fact, he appeared absolutely unconcerned.

‘It is all very well to blame the actor,’ he observed, ‘but his action should not have been responsible for Pestalozzi’s escape. Since yesterday afternoon, when Carter found him in Soho, he has been continually followed by two, sometimes three, today four men. “He has visited three houses, four restaurants, at which he has stayed for varying periods,”’ he was quoting from a report on his desk, ‘“and slept the night in the Canute Hotel, in Waterloo Road.” That is correct, isn’t it?’ Brien nodded.
‘Well, in that time, the men who trailed him learnt that he was exceedingly jumpy, startled by the least happening out of the ordinary. He was, in short, on the
qui vive
and ready to bolt at a moment’s notice. That being the case, why were they not more careful?’

Brien moodily took a cigarette from the box on the desk and lit it.

‘It is going to be a devil of a job to pick him up again,’ he remarked, ‘and the king is due next week.’

‘Not so difficult as it may appear, Bill.’ Brien caught the glint in his friend’s eyes, and all doubt or exasperation vanished at once. ‘Send Carter to me if he’s available, will you? If not Maddison will do.’

Warning had been sent to headquarters from the British agent in Vienna that a gang of international anarchists had grown very active in their meetings in that city of late. Certain information which had reached him suggested that they had determined to assassinate the king of a European country about to pay an official visit to Great Britain. Sir Leonard Wallace had hardly received the first report when a second arrived stating that three members of the band of anarchists had left for England – one of them, Pestalozzi, being known to have arrived already. How he had entered the country was a mystery, but there was no doubt of his being there.

Immediately an intensive search had commenced for him, while watch was kept on all ports and aerodromes for the other two. After nearly a month’s heartbreaking disappointment, with scarcely a clue to suggest Pestalozzi’s whereabouts, Carter, of the Secret Service, had traced him to a restaurant in Soho. From that moment he had been under almost constant surveillance until the
unfortunate intervention by Gale Preston. Even when he had slept at the Canute Hotel, on the preceding night, a man had actually been in the lounge below, while another had watched the window from the street. It had been ascertained that he had not been staying at the Canute, having merely taken a bed for that night for some reason or other. Now he had been lost again, and the king was due to land in England within a few days. To make matters more serious, nothing had been learnt of the whereabouts of the other two anarchists. Beust, one of the most reliable men in the Secret Service, who had lived in Austria since he was a child, was certain they had left the country with the intention of reaching England. There was no information whatever regarding their movements after they had departed from Vienna. It was because of this that Pestalozzi had been so carefully shadowed. He had visited three dwelling houses in which were living compatriots of his, and taken meals in four different restaurants, as a result of which all the places, and the people who inhabited or frequented them, were now under surveillance.

It was certain that he must be lodged more or less permanently somewhere. He had taken no luggage with him to the Canute Hotel, and had paid in advance for bed and breakfast from a greasy pocketbook packed with banknotes. He was, therefore, not short of money. Sir Leonard Wallace felt certain in his own mind that he had found a retreat with people of his own breed living in a district devoted to foreigners, possibly Soho, and that the other two were with him. The difficulty of finding them was that the Secret Service possessed a description only of Pestalozzi. Beust had even managed, somehow, to obtain a snapshot of the man – it had been in Carter’s possession when he had found and recognised him. He knew nothing about the other two, however,
except their names – one was Zanazaryk, a Czechoslovakian, the other, Haeckel, a German – he possessed neither photographs nor description of them, and names were very easily changed.

When Major Brien had left his room, Sir Leonard telephoned through to the Assistant Commissioner of the Special Branch at New Scotland Yard, and suggested simultaneous raids that night on the three dwelling-houses which Pestalozzi had been known to visit. Two were in Kennington, not far from the Oval, the other was close to Vauxhall Station. He did not expect that either the Italian or his companions would be in any, but there was just a possibility that they might, or perhaps information regarding their whereabouts could be discovered. The Assistant Commissioner thought the idea a good one, declared he would make arrangements at once, and submit his plans to Sir Leonard that evening. As Wallace turned from the telephone a knock came at the door. In reply to his invitation there entered a young man who looked every inch an athlete from the top of his dark brown hair to the soles of his feet. His merry, laughing eyes, and altogether good-humoured as well as good-looking face suggested a happy-go-lucky disposition. He was one of the most efficient and certainly one of the most daring members of Sir Leonard’s gallant band of assistants, although the youngest by two or three years. Wallace nodded to him.

‘They’ve lost him, Carter,’ he observed quietly.

‘I’ve just heard about it, sir,’ replied the young man. ‘Shannon, of course, is taking it as all in the day’s work, but I believe he is thoroughly fed up. He blames himself for not telling the SB men to keep parallel with Pestalozzi on the other side of the road.’

‘Of course that should have been done,’ commented Sir
Leonard, ‘but it was not, and it is no use crying over spilt milk. It is essential that we get in touch with Pestalozzi again at the earliest possible moment,’ he observed. ‘King Peter arrives in this country next Wednesday. Today is Thursday. There is little over five days, therefore, in which to accomplish work that twenty-three have failed to bring to a successful issue. I am convinced that Zanazaryk and Haeckel are also in the country, and they, as well as Pestalozzi, must be in our hands or rendered impotent by next Tuesday. I am pinning my faith to one little incident connected with your finding of the Italian yesterday.’

‘What is that, sir?’ asked Carter quickly.

‘You reported that after leaving the restaurant at which he lunched he walked to Leicester Square, and there had his boots polished by a shoeblack. That is so, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘You noticed, however, that his boots did not want cleaning, that they were, in fact, already very bright. Furthermore, he remained with the shoeblack longer than it would ordinarily take to clean a pair of dirty boots, and all the time they were engaged in conversation in low voices. In short, Carter, though you took little notice of it at the time, you believed that there was some connection between the two men.’

‘That is true, sir,’ nodded the young man.

‘Well, I believe our opportunity lies in that shoeblack. Go to Leicester Square and, if he is still there, watch him and follow him when he leaves his pitch. Find out as much about him as you can; then report to me. We may be wrong, perhaps my instinct is leading me astray this time, but there is just a chance that he may turn out to be the key to the situation. None of the places which Pestalozzi visited has supplied us with any useful information yet –
they will be quietly raided tonight, but I am not anticipating any great result from that. If you find the bootblack hang on to him like grim death. Understand, Carter?’

‘Yes, sir.’

The young man took a taxi as far as the Alhambra. Then, mingling with the numerous pedestrians, he strolled along to Leicester Square. A little sigh, expressive of exultation, left his lips when he observed the man for whom he was searching at the same pitch engaged in cleaning a lady’s shoes. At first Carter felt a little troubled lest he should prove to be a different fellow, but on approaching closer his anxiety was allayed. He had taken particular notice of the bootblack on the preceding day, and it was undoubtedly he. The Secret Service man walked round the square, stepping into all the dust he could find, thereby causing his shoes to look badly in need of a polish. On returning to the bootblack he found that the lady had gone, leaving the man disengaged. He strolled slowly by as though he had not noticed him, reflecting that less suspicion would be caused if the man solicited his custom than if he went directly to him, and Carter wanted an opportunity to study him. As he had anticipated, so it happened.

‘Will I clean it the shoe, mister?’ asked a husky voice.

Carter glanced at the speaker, turned his gaze to his dusty shoes, and smiled.

‘They do look as though they could do with a polish,’ he admitted, and stepped up to the man, placing one of his feet on the little stand.

He felt a sense of disappointment. The bootblack’s accent was Italian, Pestalozzi was Italian. It was quite possible that the only sympathy between them was their nationality. Then he
remembered the shiny boots that did not need polishing, the conversation carried on in low voices. As the bootblack assiduously cleaned his shoes, he studied him. He was clad in the regulation uniform, and obviously was a member of the bootblacks’ brigade. Carter took careful note of his number, storing it in his mind for further reference. Once or twice the man looked up, disclosing a lean, swarthy face, containing a pair of piercing, dark eyes, a somewhat broad nose and ugly mouth. He apparently possessed none of the sunny characteristics so typical of his countrymen; in fact, he appeared sullen and morose. Except for a casual remark about the weather, he made no attempt at conversation, and when Carter strove to get him to talk, either answered in monosyllables or did not reply at all.

When the shoes were cleaned, Carter tossed him a shilling and walked on to Jones’ Restaurant. He ascended to the first floor and, finding a table by a window, ordered tea. It had occurred to him that it would be difficult to find a more ideal position from which to keep watch. He was correct in his surmise. He was able to look down on the bootblack without the slightest risk of being observed himself. He dawdled over tea, his eyes seldom far from the Italian, but nothing of interest occurred. Occasionally a man or woman stopped to have their footgear cleaned, but none of them aroused anything but the utmost indifference in the man. He entered into conversation with none, accepted payment without much apparent gratitude, and took no further notice of them.

Six o’clock came and went, and Carter remained at his table. At last, it was close on the half hour, the bootblack packed up his gear and prepared to depart. Carter was surprised that he had stayed so long, for dusk had fallen, and he could have had
little hope of obtaining a client for some time past. Had he been waiting for anybody? This idea was supported by the fact that when his belongings were neatly strapped up in their box he still loitered, glancing about him as though in expectation of the arrival of somebody. Presently, however, he slung the box on his back, and set off along Coventry Street in the direction of Piccadilly Circus.

If the waitress who had attended to Carter’s wants had wondered why he had tarried so long at the table by the window, she must have been vastly surprised when he suddenly started to his feet and darted out of the room. He was halfway down the stairs, when he remembered his bill, tore back, put half a crown into the girl’s hand, and asked her to pay it for him. Then he was gone again.

Carter was one of the most expert shadowers in the Secret Service, and he was quickly on the track of the Italian bootblack. The latter led him to the Circus, crossing to Swan and Edgar’s corner, where he stood waiting for a bus. Before long a number six arrived, and he boarded it, climbing to the upper deck. Carter went inside. Having no idea whither the man was bound, he took a twopenny ticket, and trusted to luck. He found he had to pay excess fare. The vehicle made its leisurely way along Regent Street, Oxford Street, passed Marble Arch, and turned up Edgware Road, and still the bootblack showed no signs of descending. At Warwick Avenue tube station, noting the conductor’s suspicious frown, Carter took another twopenny ticket. Almost directly afterwards, he surprised that worthy by deciding to get off. The Italian had descended at the corner of Shirland Road. Directly the bus started again, Carter rose from his seat and jumped off.

‘Why don’t you make up yer mind?’ came back to him in aggrieved tones from the puncher of tickets, as the vehicle disappeared into the darkness, which by then had fallen completely.

The young man chuckled to himself. He watched the bootblack cross the road and enter a dilapidated-looking house next to a school on the other side. He himself was quite hidden from view by a furniture van conveniently drawn up to the kerb. The bootblack unlocked the front door of the house, and entered. Obviously he lived there. Almost directly afterwards a light flared up in a room on the ground floor, and Carter had time to note the general disorder and tawdriness of the furniture before the man he had trailed crossed to the window and pulled down the blinds.

A little farther along, on the other side of the road, was a telephone kiosk. Carter waited ten minutes to make sure that his quarry had no intention of leaving the house, at least for the time being; then walked along to the box and rang up his headquarters. Sir Leonard Wallace was still in his office, and listened approvingly to his subordinate’s report.

‘I’ll send someone to keep watch while you make enquiries,’ he remarked, when he had heard all Carter had to tell him. ‘That house must be kept under observation. It presents a slender hope, it is true, but still there is a hope.’