Wallace at Bay (3 page)

Carter returned to his post and, for the next quarter of an hour, kept his eyes glued on the building from a well-sheltered point. A crowd of ill-dressed, noisy children played round a lamp post in his vicinity, some of the inhabitants of the neighbouring houses stood at their gates chatting, every few minutes buses stopped close by, those coming from the West End being packed with men and women released from work for the day. It was not exactly a
quiet region. At last a saloon car glided round the corner from Sutherland Avenue, and stopped by a chapel. A man got out; walked casually along towards Carter, while the motor turned, and disappeared. The newcomer was tall and thin, and, as he passed under a lamp, the watcher recognised the seemingly lugubrious, long, narrow face of his colleague, Cartright. He stepped from his coign of vantage.

‘Hullo, Jimmy,’ he greeted him. ‘That’s the house over there – the first from the school. You get a good view of anyone leaving or entering it on account of that lamp outside the front door.’ He proceeded to give a careful description of the bootblack, and made certain that Cartright would know the man if he saw him. ‘Any orders from the chief?’ he asked.

‘Only the same as those I believe he has already given you,’ was the reply. ‘He wants you to find out everything possible about the fellow and the house he is in. Sir Leonard will be along this way about nine.’

‘Well, look here, I’ll make enquiries round this neighbourhood first; then I’ll rout out the secretary or manager or whatever he is of the Bootblacks’ Association.’

‘Right. The car is waiting in Sutherland Avenue, if you want it. I told West you probably would. You’d better have dinner before you return to relieve me.’

‘It all depends if there is time. Cheer ho!’

Carter first went into a public house a little way along the road and ordered himself a whisky and soda. He began to chat with a large and voluble lady behind the bar, and adroitly steered the conversation in the right direction. They had discussed the general decrepitude of houses in that part of Shirland Road and a good many of their inhabitants, before they came to the one
that interested Carter. She gave him his lead by describing a building on the other side as a perfect disgrace.

‘It’s such a shame,’ she drawled, ‘and this used to be such a nice neighbourhood. The landlord oughter be ashamed of himself – that he ought. I call it an eyesore, though the rest aren’t much better.’

‘Of course I don’t know the district very well,’ Carter told her, ‘but it has struck me whenever I’ve been round this way, that the first house on this side – the one next door to the school – is about the most decayed of the lot. I suppose it is owned by the same landlord, isn’t it?’

‘Lord bless you, no! There’s umpteen landlords own these houses and, if you ask me, they’re all as bad as one another. Letting the places go to rack and ruin, that’s what they’re doing, but I don’t suppose they care as long as they get their rent.’

‘Still,’ persisted Carter, ‘tidy tenants can improve even dilapidated houses by growing flowers in the front, banging up clean curtains and that sort of thing. The people in the house of which I am speaking don’t seem to have any of what you might describe as home pride.’

‘Home pride!’ snorted the lady behind the bar. ‘I should think not indeed. Do you know who live in that house?’

He smiled.

‘No; I’m afraid I don’t.’

‘Foreigners, all the blessed lot of them. And what can you expect from foreigners? An Eyetalian family used to rent the whole house, or most of it, and – it wasn’t so bad then, but their circumstances improved, and they moved. They kept it on, though, and let it out in flats. An ice cream man lives in the basement with his wife and half a dozen kids – where they put them all I don’t know. The
ground floor is rented by a man who lives all by himself – he’s a bootblack I think. The top was empty for a long time, but lately it’s been taken by three brothers – nasty looking beggars all of them; they come in here sometimes and drink like fish. It’s good for the house, of course, but I’d as soon they kept away. Now, mister, how can you expect people of that sort to try to make a house look nice?’

‘No, I suppose they’re hardly the kind to bother.’ Carter answered somewhat absently, though he took care to hide the elation which had suddenly filled him.

It seemed to him that the unexpected had happened; that Sir Leonard Wallace’s extraordinary power of intuition had once again proved correct. When Carter had first mentioned the bootblack to the chief the latter had seemed greatly interested even then. Although there had been nothing much to go on, he had at once assumed that the man was in some way connected with the anarchists. It was he who, by searching enquiry, had guided Carter’s mind back to every detail of Pestalozzi’s apparel, had ascertained from him that the Italian’s boots had not needed cleaning, and had pointed out the importance of the fact. Now, having received instructions to follow the bootblack and learn everything he could about him, Carter had discovered the significant circumstance that the second floor of the house in which the man lived had lately been taken by three foreigners, who called themselves brothers. Were they brothers by blood or brothers by association? In short, were they the three anarchists for whom the men of the Secret Service and the Special Branch of Scotland Yard had been searching for so long?

Carter turned to the large lady behind the bar, hoping to get a description that would fit Pestalozzi, when the door of the saloon
opened. Cartright entered; he was whistling a tune that Secret Service men often used to warn each other of their presence, and of the fact that they had news, or that there was danger about. At the same time Carter caught a glimpse of the bootblack in the public bar, and drew back for fear the man would recognise him. Next to the Italian was someone else, of whom he could only see an arm and shoulder. The landlady had a better view – she had half turned at the sound of the newcomers’ voices and leaning towards Carter she whispered:

‘Well I never! Talk of angels, they say, and you hear the flutter of their wings – not that these are angels by any means. It’s the folk I was telling you about!’

At that moment Carter saw the face of the man next to the bootblack, and recognised it – he was Pestalozzi.

Neither Cartright nor Carter took the slightest notice of each other. The former had entered the saloon bar in order to warn his colleague. That having been accomplished, he hastily drank a whisky and soda and departed. A few minutes later Carter took leave of the lady who had been so informative, and went out. He joined Cartright in a dark patch of pavement between two lamps on the other side of the road.

‘Is any of them our man, do you think?’ asked the latter.

Carter caught him exultantly by the arm.

‘My boy,’ he murmured, ‘one is the bootblack and the other Pestalozzi himself.’

Cartright gave vent to a grunt which was intended to signify delight, but which might have meant almost anything. He was not demonstrative.

‘There were four of them altogether,’ he announced. ‘I wonder if the other two were Haeckel and Zanazaryk.’

‘I’d stake my life on it,’ returned the exuberant Carter.

He repeated the conversation he had had with the landlady in the public house.

‘I wouldn’t stake my life on it,’ observed his more cautious colleague, ‘but it’s a safe enough bet to plunk a couple of bob on.’

‘That settles it,’ decided Carter. ‘When you are willing to bet two whole shillings, twenty-four pence, forty-eight halfpence on anything it must be a cert. Look here, Jimmy, it doesn’t matter now whether I find out if the boot wallah is a pukka member of the association or brigade of bootblacks or not. He must be, anyway, or he wouldn’t dare take up a pitch and wear the uniform and a number in Leicester Square. I’m going into that house.’

‘It would be a good notion if one of us did,’ agreed Cartright. ‘Perhaps you’d better go. You’re a more expert burglar than I am. I’ll walk by and whistle the old tune, if they show signs of returning before you come back. I hope you get out in time.’

‘Whistle it loudly,’ enjoined the younger man. ‘It would be a pity if my promising career was cut short, because you didn’t whistle loudly enough.’

He crossed to the other side, and hurried along towards the house. It was an admirable night for his purpose. There was no moon, while a heavy cloudbank had blown up, and it had commenced to rain. The children had dispersed, and the chatterers had been driven in to their firesides. A bus came swinging round from Formosa Street, stopped to drop a single passenger, who went towards Bristol Gardens, and rattled on its way again. For the moment there was not a soul about. Carter slipped through the gate, up the steps to the front door. He did not worry about the lamp standard right outside the house. A bunch of skeleton keys which he carried about with him would
provide the means of entrance. There would be no question of attempting to enter by a window, when he would be certain to draw attention to himself.

In a little over half a minute after trying a key in the lock, he was inside the house, the door closed behind him. He found himself in a dark, narrow hall, which contained an unpleasant odour of mustiness and decay. Making his way cautiously forward – he did not have a torch on him, and did not wish to risk switching on the light – he came to a staircase and, without making a sound, ascended. On the floor above was a passage narrower than the hall below. Two rooms opened into it, while there was a bathroom at the rear, down two steps. A door directly in front of him proved to belong to a cupboard, the staircase continuing upward to the left of it. He chose the back room in which to start his investigations as being the safer. His main object was to discover for certain, if possible, whether the two men with Pestalozzi and the bootblack were actually Haeckel and Zanazaryk. If he were able to ascertain that, there would be no reason for him to enter the front room at all. There was a great deal less risk in the back room, but would he hear Cartright whistle? A smile played round his lips at the recollection of his last remark to his colleague.

He pushed open the door quietly and entered. For a moment he stood listening; then feeling for the electric light switch, turned on the light. A quick glance round showed him a room in a state of awful untidiness. A double bedstead and a smaller one occupied most of the space, blankets, sheets and pillows being thrown on them in heaps. Shirts – dirty-looking objects – socks and collars covered the rickety dressing table and only chair, and overflowed on to the floor. A washstand in one
corner of the room contained a cracked ewer and a basin full of black, soapy water. An expression of disgust crossed Carter’s face, but he had no time for fastidious repugnance. The blind was already drawn down before the solitary window, therefore he could not be seen from the houses at the back. His eyes searched for and found what was of importance to him – three suitcases of varying sizes, all old and very much worn, pushed under the large bed.

Quickly he dragged them out. They were not locked, and rapidly but expertly he searched them, taking care to replace everything exactly as he found it. He was extremely disappointed when he had finished. He had failed to find a single article of any interest to him. At least he had hoped to come across the men’s passports. Even if they were held under false names, as they were certain to be, he would have learnt something from them. He was particularly keen to know where they had been issued. Pushing the suitcases back under the bed, he set to work to search the rest of the room. The minutes passed quickly by, and still he failed to come across a single object that would have helped him to establish the identity of even one of the foreigners. The drawers of the dressing table contained nothing at all; none of the shirts or collars had a name on them. He was about to go into the front room when his eyes settled on a pair of high Russian boots thrown carelessly under the washstand. What innocent looking receptacles they would make, he thought, for anything the men wanted to hide that could not be carried about with them. Immediately he picked up one, finding it astonishingly heavy. Inserting his hand he found himself grasping a heavy automatic pistol. He drew it out and examined it. It had no name on it, but was of German make, a deadly-looking weapon, and was fully
loaded. The other boot contained a similar pistol. At least he had found proof that the owner of the boots was not altogether a simple, guileless individual. Only a man who had sinister designs or was in fear of aggression would possess such weapons. Not expecting to discover to whom the boots belonged, Carter nevertheless turned back the tops and examined them. Then a low cry of exultation escaped from him. An attempt had been made to scratch out certain letters written on each. He carried them under the light and held them close to his eyes. The writing was practically obliterated. On one, only Y and K being visible, but on the other less success had attended the efforts of the owner. Carter was able to read Zan-za-yk – obviously Zanazaryk. He had established the fact that with Pestalozzi was, at least, one of his fellow anarchists.

He replaced the pistols in their unusual holsters, which he took care were put back under the washstand exactly as he had found them. That done, he switched off the light and left the bedroom; walked along the passage, and entered the apartment overlooking the street. The blinds were down, but, like those of the bedroom, were only flimsy things of linen, through which the light was bound to show. There were no thick curtains to draw across. However, Cartright was on watch. He would be bound to warn him of the approach of the men. Carter switched on the light, and glanced round the room which, though not in as disorderly a condition as the bedroom, was extremely untidy, as well as badly furnished. A large kitbag lying in a corner, under a rug which only partially hid it, immediately drew his eye. At once he was across the room and had removed the covering. A powerful-looking padlock secured the top of the bag, which on inspection, Carter decided would take some time to open –
probably far longer than he could afford. He felt several hard substances, the shape of them suggesting, as far as he was able to tell, large revolvers or possibly Mauser automatic pistols.

‘They’re well armed,’ he muttered to himself. ‘I wish to goodness I had the time to open that thing and look inside.’

There was nothing on the kitbag to indicate the name of the owner. After turning it over, he laid it down again, and drew the rug back over it. He then turned his attention to the rest of the room. An overcoat which he seemed to recognise was thrown over the back of a chair. Picking it up and holding it at arms’ length, he decided that it was the one which Pestalozzi had been wearing when he had first come across the man. At first he thought there was nothing in any of the pockets, but on more careful investigation, he found a sticky lump in one. Taking it out he discovered, to his disgust, that it consisted of a half melted sweetmeat of some kind to which were adhering several torn scraps of paper. These he pulled away from the sweet one by one, placing them on the table. They were obviously all part of one small piece of paper, and he proceeded to put them together. It was an unpleasant job, as they were sticky and very dirty. However, he persevered. Presently he had succeeded in arranging the whole in one piece, and on it, to his delight, he found a message. It was written in German, and he quickly translated it to read:

Carter gave vent to a grunt of satisfaction. The reason why Pestalozzi had taken a room in the Canute Hotel for one night
was now explained. Somebody had met him there, and had given him certain instructions which, it was to be presumed, had been conveyed from the headquarters of the anarchists in Vienna. Who was ‘M’? However, the identity of the messenger did not matter very much, as he had probably already returned whence he came. Carter had evidence now that Haeckel as well as Zanazaryk was with Pestalozzi, for the letter ‘H’ in the note could hardly refer to anybody else.

He copied the message into his notebook; then, replacing the scraps of paper on the sweet – a most distasteful task – replaced the messy lump in the pocket from which he had taken it. The coat was put back on the chair exactly as it had lain before. Carter had learnt, during his career, that to pay attention to the smallest details was a very necessary policy in the work of an agent of the Secret Service. He wiped his hands on his handkerchief until they no longer felt sticky; then continued his investigations. A folded map of the routes of London of the type issued by the London Transport Company lay on the mantelpiece, but he took no notice of it until he had completed his survey of the room and had found nothing further of interest. He picked it up casually and opened it. The next moment he gave an exclamation, spread it out on the table, and was studying it. On it a thin red line was traced from Victoria Station, along Victoria Street, across Parliament Square, thence up Whitehall, along the Mall by way of the Admiralty Arch to Buckingham Palace. It was the route King Peter would take on his arrival in London. A large red cross marked the spot about where the Cenotaph stood. It was expected that the king would place a wreath at the base of the memorial. Was it there that the anarchists had decided to assassinate him? Carter had little
doubt of it. He carefully followed the route to make certain there were no other crosses.

He was thus engaged when he heard faintly the whistled notes of the tune British Secret Service men used as a warning to each other. At once, he folded up the map, replaced it on the mantelshelf and, darting across the room, switched off the light. A moment later he had run quietly down the stairs, had opened the front door, and was looking out. Cartright came by as he was about to close the door behind him, caught sight of him, and paused for a moment in his whistling.

‘Back and hide,’ came the low warning, barely reaching Carter’s ears. ‘Close behind!’ And Cartright passed on, whistling louder than ever.

The lips of his colleague came together grimly, but he did not hesitate. Backing into the hall, he gently closed the door. He regretted now that he was not armed, but he smiled as he reflected that he knew where he would be able to obtain a weapon, if it became necessary and he was able to reach it in time. Where was he to hide? He knew nothing of the bootblack’s flat. If he entered any of his rooms, the possibility was that he would find nothing in them behind which he could conceal himself; there was certainly no hiding place in either of the rooms above. He heard the sound of voices and footsteps outside; immediately ran back up the stairs; had reached the next floor as the door opened. It was his intention to ascend the next flight which led to an attic. As far as he knew the latter was unoccupied. There he hoped to be able to remain in security until the coast was clear. He heard the voices of the four men as they stood talking in the hall below. They were conversing in German, and Carter would very much have liked to remain where he was and listen to their
conversation. Such a proceeding, however, would be, he realised, nothing but folly. The stairs above might creak, there might be obstacles in his way. While the three anarchists were ascending to their rooms they might hear him above, or reach the landing to find him vainly endeavouring to move from his path articles that had been left on the stairs. He had once before had a very narrow escape when, in order to avoid pursuers, he had darted up the stairs of a similar kind of house to find his way obstructed by a conglomeration of articles from suitcases and birdcages to brooms and dustpans. The tenants of the house had been in the habit of utilising the unused staircase as a handy place on which to store impedimenta, for which they otherwise could not have found room.

His experience was not repeated on this occasion, however, the stairs leading to the attic were quite clear, though uncarpeted and distinctly creaky. Before starting on the ascent he had stolen a glance at the quartette below. One of the men had switched on the hall light, and they were standing directly underneath it. There was no mistaking Pestalozzi and the bootblack, but the other two had their backs to Carter. All he was able to see of them was that they were both of average height, though one was a good deal stouter than the other. They had not taken off their hats. The shape of their heads and the colour of their hair, therefore, remained unknown factors to the Secret Service man.