Wallace at Bay (4 page)

Treading with the utmost caution, and feeling before him for obstacles, he crept step by step to the attic, but despite all his care, he could not prevent a creak occurring now and again. One in particular sounded to his ears almost as loud as a pistol shot, and he stood expectant, anticipating cries of alarm and the sound of men running up from below. However, nothing of an
inimical nature took place; the murmur of voices went on. He continued his slow progress, and eventually reached the top. The atmosphere of mustiness was more pronounced than ever up there; the dust seemed to lie inches deep underfoot; he heard the scuttle of mice. It was certain that the attic had lacked a tenant for a very long time, and was almost, if not entirely, a stranger to fresh air.

There was a tiny little landing at the head of the stairs. Carter felt his way along until he came to a door. It was closed, but he found the handle, and turned it carefully. It squeaked a little, as did the door, when he slowly pushed it open. The farther it went the noisier it threatened to become. He desisted, therefore, as soon as he had assured himself that there was room enough to enter. Returning to the banisters he leant over, and stood listening. Up there it was quite impossible to distinguish what was being said, though he was still able to hear voices. The men remained where they were for some considerable time, but at last he heard the sound of heavy feet ascending the first flight of stairs; then walking along the passage. A light was switched on.

‘Himmel!’ grunted a voice in German. ‘The fire has gone out. Zanazaryk, my friend, you will have to give us the benefit of your skill. Neither Pestalozzi nor I is much good at making fires.’

‘One day it is certain you will be the fuel which will help to keep one going,’ commented another voice.

‘Ah! That is a Czechoslovakian joke,’ was the retort, ‘and therefore, not in good taste. If we burn, my friend, it is sure that you will do likewise, unless there is something worse than burning.’

Carter smiled to himself, as the three men entered the room, and closed the door behind them. He had feared they would leave it open, when it would have been utterly impossible to
have passed without being seen. He decided to wait a little while; then attempt the descent. He dared not risk a light. There was not the slightest feeling of fear in his heart, though he knew very well his life would not be worth a moment’s purchase if he were discovered. In taking precautions to escape detection he had not thought of himself at all. He had been altogether influenced by the necessity to avoid alarming the anarchists. Once they had him in their power they would kill him, and depart, at once, for another hiding place. Cartright was outside, but it was not certain that he would succeed in trailing them to a new refuge. They would expect another man, perhaps more, to be on watch, and would naturally take precautions accordingly. It was absolutely essential, therefore, thought the young man, that he must get out of the house unsuspected. Once Sir Leonard Wallace was in possession of the information he could give him, it is certain he would act quickly. The chief never allowed the grass to grow under his feet – he had a habit of acting with dramatic suddenness.

After waiting where he was for close on half an hour, it suddenly occurred to Carter that he probably could look down into the road from the attic window. He might be able to draw Cartright’s attention, thus showing that he was safe. The thought had no sooner come to him than he squeezed into the room and, ascertaining where the window was from the square of faintly reflected light in the prevailing darkness, tiptoed cautiously towards it, fearful lest a board should creak or his footsteps be heard beneath. He had almost achieved his object when the very thing he was dreading happened. A loose board close to the window gave beneath his tread, and, as his foot was raised from it, returned to place with a loud squeak.

He immediately froze into immobility, hardly daring to breathe. His worst fears were realised when the door below was flung open, and there reached his ears the sound of excited and somewhat alarmed voices. They ceased after a few moments and a dead silence reigned. Carter knew the men were standing on the landing below listening.

‘You are a fool, Pestalozzi,’ remarked one of the anarchists presently. ‘Upstairs there are many rats and mice. What else could it be?’

‘It sounded to me,’ replied a thin, nasal voice which spoke German indifferently, ‘like a board creaking. Boards only creak when feet press on them.’

‘That is nonsense,’ put in the third man, ‘a rat can make a board creak also. Since I came here I have often heard sounds like that. Once I went to see. There was nothing only dust and smell and the scampering of many feet. It seems to me, my friend Pestalozzi, that you are a coward.’

‘Haeckel is right,’ agreed the first man who had spoken – despite his peril, Carter gave a little sigh of triumph at this complete confirmation that Haeckel was the third member of the party – ‘You are a coward, Pestalozzi. Why you were sent with us on such a mission I do not know.’

‘You are fools, both of you,’ replied the thin voice of the Italian. ‘If you had the experience that I had today, you would not be so full of confidence. Are you not alarmed to know that the police have discovered that we are in this country, and nearly arrested me?’

‘Bah! It was your imagination, my friend,’ declared Haeckel – he seemed unable to leave the phrase ‘my friend’ out of a sentence, though his voice did not suggest friendship. ‘A man rubbed against
your arm and you immediately thought he was of the police. Your imagination did the rest.’

‘But I tell you I heard him say the words, “I arrest you”.’

The third man laughed.

‘Your English is too bad to be certain of that,’ he observed. ‘It is more likely he was apologising to you. The police cannot know we are here. Our arrangements, and our entry into this country, were too well-planned, and English police do not look,’ he laughed again, ‘for people like us.’

‘I tell you, you are wrong,’ cried Pestalozzi. ‘Why will you not be convinced?’

‘Well, here we are quite safe,’ decided Haeckel. ‘We have watched well, and there has happened nothing to make us suspicious.’

Pestalozzi muttered something which Carter was unable to catch.

‘Why don’t you go up and look?’ demanded Zanazaryk. ‘At least you will convince yourself.’

Almost directly afterwards there came the sound of ascending feet, and Carter’s body grew more rigid than ever; his hands clenched and his teeth gritted together. At the top of the stairs the approaching man stumbled, and swore in Italian. One of the others laughed.

‘Have you fallen over a policeman?’ he called mockingly.

The Italian came on towards the attic. Carter wondered if he knew the door should have been shut. He suddenly remembered the faint blur of light cast by the window, and quietly bent himself double for fear of being silhouetted. Pestalozzi pushed the door wide open and entered. Apparently he was not surprised or alarmed to find it was not closed. Carter heard his hand feeling for the
switch, and little beads of perspiration broke out on his forehead. He had forgotten that the man would be bound to put on the light. This would be the end; there would be no chance of reaching the bedroom now, and obtaining one of the automatics concealed in the boots. One cry from Pestalozzi, and the others would rush to his assistance; then—! Carter’s lips pursed in a soundless whistle. He waited calmly for the end.

The Italian’s hand continued rubbing against the wall, searching for the switch. He was a long time finding it, and muttered to himself in exasperation. Carter thought he was rather a fool not to have brought a torch or a lamp with him. Ah! At last his fingers came in contact with it, and the Englishman braced himself for what he believed was about to happen. There was a click, but no light flared on to reveal the Secret Service agent crouching below the window. The latter, realising that there was no bulb in the socket or that, if there were, it was a dud, almost laughed aloud in his relief. But his ordeal was not yet at an end.

Pestalozzi stood by the door swearing softly to himself in Italian for a few moments, then he began to feel his way round the room. Carter held his breath, ready to grapple with him the moment the other’s body touched his. Directly that happened, he would knock the fellow over, dash down the stairs, hoping thus to take the other two momentarily by surprise. There was just a chance that he would be able to reach the bedroom, snatch one of the pistols, and thus be in a position to obtain the upper hand. The plan was desperate, the chance of getting by Haeckel and Zanazaryk practically nil, but it was his only chance. He had no intention of being overcome without a fierce fight for liberty.

He heard the Italian’s shuffling steps as he edged slowly round the room. Gradually the fellow drew nearer, was almost on
him. Carter felt a slight puff of air above his head, realised that Pestalozzi’s hand had passed just over him. The Italian moved on; he had missed him by what could hardly have been more than a fraction of an inch! A few moments later he left the room, walked along the landing, and descended the stairs. No voices greeted his appearance. Carter concluded that the other two had re-entered the apartment beneath. He straightened himself, and leant, breathing a little more deeply than usual, against the windowsill. He had experienced some very narrow escapes during his career, but this deserved to rank with the narrowest.

He heard the door close below, remained perfectly still for some time; then, certain that the three had by then settled down again, began to feel for the fastening of the window. His fingers soon found it, but were unable to move it. From long disuse it had jammed into place, and he was afraid to exert too much pressure lest, in forcing it back, it made too much noise. Eventually he was compelled to give up any hope of opening the window. With his handkerchief he wiped away some of the accumulation of dirt on the glass, and was able to look out. He could not see much, however. The room below possessed a bow window, the roof of which completely cut off his view of the road and, in fact, of the pavement on the other side. Carter was very disappointed. He had hoped to have been able to get into communication with Cartright. There was only one thing left to do. That was to endeavour to get out of the house as soon as possible. Jimmy, he decided, would be getting anxious. He turned to begin his stealthy creep across the unstable floor. Then suddenly a blinding flash of light shone full in his eyes, and he started back with a cry.

‘Ah!’ came a low, guttural voice, sounding more sinister to
Carter’s ears, since he was unable to see the speaker. ‘So mine friendt a fool vas not. He zinks that zomeone very quiet in zis room is, and tell me zo. Your hands put up, or shot you will get.’ Carter’s hands had been promptly raised at the order. The German, in his own tongue, called down to his companions, who quickly ran up the stairs to his assistance. Their exclamations were more forcible than polite when they saw Carter. ‘Take him by his arms and go with him in front of me,’ directed Haeckel. ‘We will take him to our room, and ask him some questions before we kill him.’

The two entered the attic. Carter’s arms were gripped roughly, and he was led down to the apartment below. On the threshold he made a fierce attempt to wrench himself free, risking a bullet from the gun carried by the German behind, but he was held too tightly. They hustled him into the room with brutal force. The door closed on them.

Cartright had hoped that he would have been able to give his colleague warning of the coming of the anarchists in ample time to enable him to escape. He had watched them from the saloon bar, to which he had returned when Carter left him and, directly they showed signs of moving, had hurried out and made his way towards the house. Unfortunately, however, the four foreigners seemed to be in great haste also. They had left the public house soon after him, but instead of slouching along home, had walked rapidly. The result was that when Cartright passed the front gate, they had not been more than thirty yards behind him, and he had had no recourse but to advise his colleague to go back. Had Carter attempted to descend the steps, he could not have avoided being seen.

Knowing his friend to be in a house with four men who would not hesitate to murder him, if they discovered him,
Cartright was distinctly worried. For some time he considered the idea of entering in order to be able to go to Carter’s assistance if necessary, but eventually decided against it. The chances were that he would do more harm than good. He had no idea how the rooms inside were situated, or, in fact, very much about the house. If he broke his way in, he might quite possibly blunder right into the anarchists, and thus give the whole business away. Carter, he knew was a young man of infinite resource and, in that knowledge he took a good deal of comfort. As time passed, however, and his friend did not appear he became definitely anxious. He dared not leave his post, otherwise he would have gone to the telephone and rung up for assistance. The driver of the car in which he had travelled from Whitehall was waiting out of sight in Sutherland Avenue. If he could only get hold of him! But the risk of walking even that short distance away was too great. The anarchists might emerge while he was up the road and depart for a fresh address, leaving Carter’s dead body behind to testify to their desperation and contempt for the authorities. If they escaped, Sir Leonard Wallace would never forgive him. Cartright decided to remain where he was, every now and again casting glances along the road in the hope that West, the driver, would glance round the corner, when he might be able to signal to him to approach. West, however, like most of the drivers employed by Secret Service Headquarters, was an old soldier of exemplary character and a rigid sense of discipline. He had been told to take the car out of sight and stand by it until Carter or Cartright came to him, and there he would remain until Doomsday if need be. Cartright knew that perfectly well.

A neighbouring clock began to chime preparatory to striking nine. He looked across at the house. There were lights in the
basement, on the ground floor, and the storey above. Once or twice shadows had been thrown momentarily on the blinds, but otherwise there was no sign of life. Everything seemed so utterly peaceful that it was hard to imagine violence taking place over the way. But nobody knew better than Cartright how deceptive appearances can be. He shivered a little, and it was not altogether due to the chill wind or the rain, which was now descending in a steady stream.

The last note of the hour was striking, when a large black car glided noiselessly round the corner from Formosa Street, passed him by, and stopped forty or fifty yards farther along. He recognised it as belonging to Sir Leonard Wallace, and a feeling of relief replaced the anxiety in his mind. A man of medium height, slim even in the raincoat he wore, with a felt hat pulled well down on his head, and his left hand in his pocket descended from the car, and strolled along the pavement towards him. There was no mistaking the chief. Cartright moved slowly to meet him.

‘Anything of interest to report?’ asked Sir Leonard, as he acknowledged the other’s salute.

‘We have discovered that Pestalozzi is in there, sir,’ Cartright told him, ‘and are pretty sure Haeckel and Zanazaryk are with him.’ He proceeded to repeat the conversation Carter had had with the lady in the public house, described how he had followed the four men to the place, and Carter’s recognition of Pestalozzi. A deep sigh of satisfaction was the only sound that left Sir Leonard’s lips by way of reply. ‘While they were in the pub,’ went on Cartright, ‘Carter decided to search their rooms. He was in there a considerable time, and had not reappeared, when they got ready to return. I hurried along and warned him by whistling,
but they were too rapid to give him time to get out safely. He was opening the front door, when I passed, but they were so close behind me that I had to tell him to get back and hide. That was nearly three quarters of an hour ago, sir, and there has not been a sign of him since.’

‘He may be hidden somewhere listening to their conversation,’ commented Wallace. ‘Is he armed?’

‘I don’t know, sir. I’m afraid I forgot to ask. I am.’

‘H’m! I don’t suppose for a moment that he is.’ He stood in deep thought, his eyes fixed on the house across the way. ‘The ground floor is occupied by the bootblack,’ he murmured, presently, ‘and the floor above by Pestalozzi and his supposed brothers. We needn’t bother about the basement particularly, though we’ll keep a watch on it. Have you a bunch of skeleton keys on you, Cartright?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Then take these, go across, and open that door. Not a sound mind.’

Cartright waited until a man and woman had passed by and a bus, going to the West End, had rounded the corner and disappeared; then he stepped from behind the tree which had sheltered him, and walked to the Formosa Street end of the road. A minute later he came back on the other side, slipped through the gate, and went up the steps to the door. Wallace strolled back to his car, put his head in the open window, and spoke to somebody within. One by one four men stepped out, immediately taking care to avoid any light, and, as far as possible, became merged with the darkness. They were all very expert at that sort of thing for, as the car went towards Sutherland Avenue, a casual observer would only have noticed one man – a slim individual in a raincoat, with one hand in a
pocket – who walked across the road, and slowly approached the house next door to the school. Yet, when he had assured himself that the door had been opened and raised his right arm, apparently as a signal, the other four appeared as though from nowhere. As silently as shadows they all passed through the gate, up the steps, and into the house. The door closed gently behind them.

The light in the hall had been left on, and Sir Leonard’s eyes quickly took in the narrow, untidy hall, the stairs covered with a worn and shabby carpet, which looked as though it had not been swept for years, and the three closed doors belonging to the bootblack’s apartments. His five companions eyed him expectantly, waiting for orders. Besides Cartright, Shannon, looking bigger and more burly than ever in that confined space, Major Brien, his blue eyes glistening with anticipation, and two intelligent-looking men of the Special Branch of New Scotland Yard were present. All, except Sir Leonard himself held revolvers in their hands. He was about to whisper his instructions when, from far above their heads, they caught the sound of a voice; immediately afterwards the same voice, now raised commandingly, shouted: ‘Come up! There is a man up here!’ Followed hoarse exclamations, and the sound of feet pattering up uncovered stairs.

‘We seem to have made our appearance at the psychological moment,’ muttered Sir Leonard.

They stood listening intently to the noises above. Came the tramp of several feet descending; then a loud scuffling punctuated by more forcible exclamations. Even though the din above their heads was loud enough to drown all other sounds, Wallace heard a movement inside the room opposite him. He glanced at Shannon, and nodded to the door. It was flung
open as the big man turned. On the threshold appeared the bootblack, whose eyes almost started from his head, and whose face turned a sickly yellow as he saw the six men standing in the hall. He opened his mouth to cry out, but before his lips could utter a sound an enormous hand closed them completely. He was lifted up like a babe, carried back into the room, and deposited in a chair.

‘If you are in a hurry to find out what the next world is like, sing out,’ remarked Shannon. ‘If not, keep quiet, and remain quiet.’

Sir Leonard sent one of the Scotland Yard men to keep guard over the prisoner, and called Shannon out.

‘We may want the use of your muscles,’ he observed with a smile. ‘Come on, and tread carefully, all of you!’

He led the way up the stairs and along the landing. The door of the front room had been closed, but he bent down and applied his eye to the keyhole. As the key was in it, he was unable to see anything, but he could hear the sound of voices raised angrily. Straightening himself, he turned to his followers.

‘Ready?’ They nodded. ‘Shoot at the first sign of resistance, but be careful of Carter. I’m pretty certain it is he they took in there.’

He turned the handle, and opened the door almost quietly. Into the room he stepped, his four followers crowding in behind him. The surprise was complete. Zanazaryk and Pestalozzi, who had been holding Carter by the arms, let go of him and shrank away with cries of alarm, the Italian’s face suddenly ghastly. Haeckel’s mouth and eyes opened wide in an expression of blank amazement, but there was little fear on his face. He possessed far more courage than his companions.

‘Hands up!’ snapped Sir Leonard. ‘And keep them up. Carter come here!’

Haeckel recovered himself marvellously. As Carter was about to obey his chief, the German grasped his arm and raised his revolver to within an inch or two of the young man’s head.

‘If he moves or anyone of you shoot,’ he snarled, ‘he quickly is dead.’

It looked as though for the moment Sir Leonard and his men were checked. They might shoot the German, but the shock, as the bullets entered his body, would, in itself, be sufficient to cause his finger to stiffen on the trigger and bring about Carter’s death. Zanazaryk and Pestalozzi recovered their courage somewhat on seeing the German’s defiance. They had obeyed the order to raise their hands; now they lowered them again, and ranged themselves on either side of Haeckel. Sir Leonard smiled a little, both his hands were in his raincoat pockets now.

‘Lower that revolver, and stand back,’ he ordered quietly in German. ‘Resistance of this sort on your part can only have one result. If you surrender, you will face a fair trial, with a term of imprisonment only behind it. On the other hand, if you persist in this attitude, you will lose your lives. I will give you two minutes to decide.’

Haeckel actually laughed.

‘And of zis man vat?’ he sneered, persisting in his poor English. ‘Is it zat you mind not if killed he is?’

‘He will not be killed,’ declared Sir Leonard. ‘Hurry, and make your choice; nearly a minute has passed.’

His tone was so cool and commanding that all Zanazaryk’s and Pestalozzi’s fears returned. They did not like the assurance of this calm man with the steely eyes and confident manner. It occurred to them he was prepared to sacrifice the man they had captured, if need be, to gain his ends. Carter was no whit
perturbed. He even smiled as he listened to his chief.

‘I haf mine choice made,’ proclaimed Haeckel.

‘So be it,’ returned Wallace shrugging his shoulders a little. He eyed Pestalozzi and Zanazaryk. ‘If you two possess any common sense,’ he continued in German, ‘you will persuade your companion to forsake his absurd attitude. We know you are all here with the intention of attempting to assassinate King Peter. If you hope for any mercy from the English courts, it will pay you to acknowledge that you are caught and not make your case worse by attempting to resist.’

‘Do not listen to him,’ hissed Haeckel. ‘We will make a bargain for this man’s life.’

Still looking at Pestalozzi, Sir Leonard continued to warn the anarchists of the folly of their attitude, but in the middle of a sentence he suddenly spoke in Hindustani, a language with which Carter was fairly well acquainted.

‘When I cough, Carter,’ he ordered, ‘duck like lightning. Understand?’

‘
Jih
,’ returned that young man promptly.

‘What is it you say?’ asked the puzzled Pestalozzi; ‘I no understand.’

Sir Leonard ignored him, and turned again to Haeckel.

‘The two minutes I gave you are up,’ he stated. ‘What is your decision?’

‘I tell you I haf mine dezision made.’

‘Very well.’

He coughed, and Carter went down to the floor as though he had been poleaxed. At the same moment Wallace fired at Haeckel through the pocket of his raincoat. His bullet hit the German in the elbow, and the latter dropped his revolver with
a scream of pain and fury. Pestalozzi cringed back, making no attempt at resistance, but Zanazaryk seemed suddenly to regain his courage. He threw up his arm and was about to fire at the recumbent figure of Carter, but Brien was watching him, and promptly shot him in the right shoulder. The Czechoslovakian reeled back; sank cursing into a chair.

The fight was by no means over. Despite his wound, Haeckel flung himself, with a snarl like that of a wild beast, at Sir Leonard Wallace. The latter could easily have shot him again, but refrained. Instead he stepped neatly aside, and the German found himself in the iron grip of Shannon. He struggled desperately, but he might as well have attempted to wrestle with an orangoutang. The most powerful man in the Secret Service held him with ease, and grinned cheerfully into his face.

‘Naughty, naughty!’ he murmured. ‘You’ll hurt that arm of yours.’

He handed him over to Cartright and the Scotland Yard man, the latter deftly snapping a pair of handcuffs on his wrists. Presently the pain in the German’s elbow proved too much for his courage, which oozed out of him rapidly now. He was pushed into a chair and crouched there moaning. Sir Leonard looked round approvingly.

‘A nice clean-up, thanks to you, Carter,’ he observed, as the latter rose to his feet.

The young man felt a glow of pleasure. Words of that nature from the chief were worth a great deal, for Sir Leonard was not in the habit of giving praise lightly. Brien stood complacently surveying the scene, his blue eyes twinkling with delight.