Wallace at Bay (6 page)

‘Miss Veronica Simpson,’ went on Maddison, pointing out another resident, ‘is a retired schoolmistress spending her pension on seeing the sights, I believe.’

‘The old dear’s making whoopee,’ commented Sir Leonard.
‘I don’t think we need consider her. Great Scott!’ he exclaimed suddenly, as Maddison’s finger fell on another name. ‘Look what we have here, Bill. Modjeska-Ivan,’ he read, ‘from Warsaw – Pole of independent means.’ There was a glint of excitement in his grey eyes as he looked up at Maddison. ‘What did you find out about him?’ he demanded.

‘He arrived yesterday, sir,’ was the reply. ‘Was here a little over a week ago, and gave as explanation for his return that a friend whom he had not seen for many years was coming to England from America, and is to meet him in London. His passport and other documents are in perfect order and, according to the landlord, he is a quiet, gentlemanly sort of man.’

‘You did not see him?’

‘No, he was out.’

Wallace sat back in his chair.

‘You were right, Bill,’ he declared, ‘they have sent over a man to investigate, and this is he. Modjeska was one of the names mentioned by Casaroli in his frenzy. The note which Carter found torn up in Pestalozzi’s pocket and which he pieced together was initialled with the letter M. It was Modjeska whom Pestalozzi went to meet at the Canute Hotel ten days ago.’

‘There can be no doubt of that,’ agreed Brien, ‘but it puzzles me why he did not change his name.’

‘Why should he? He has no reason to think that he is suspected. Therefore, it is far safer to come here under his own name, especially as his papers are in perfect order. Besides, having come over here once, and so recently, as Modjeska, he could not very well appear as someone else unless, of course, he had taken a room elsewhere. Altogether I think he is a wise man. There’s another guest, isn’t there, Maddison?’

‘Yes, sir. This one.’ He pointed to a much blotted name, the last in the book. It looked like Beynon, but Maddison read it as Brown. ‘He arrived this morning, is quite unknown, and, to quote the proprietor again, talks with a broad north-country accent, and looks a bit down on his luck.’

‘I don’t think we need bother about him,’ decided Sir Leonard. He closed the book. ‘You can send it back – or rather take it back yourself, and allay any suspicions that may have been roused in the landlord’s honest breast. Let him understand that his guests are all quite unsuspected persons, and that the authorities you represent were barking up the wrong tree. I don’t want him to expect any police activity or anything like that, because another guest will arrive tonight. Neither he nor anybody in the hotel must have the slightest notion that the newcomer is anything but what he professes to be. You understand?’

‘Quite, sir.’

Sir Leonard handed the book back to him.

‘Send Carter to me at once,’ he directed. When Maddison had gone, he turned to Brien. ‘Modjeska’s appearance in London has greatly helped me to complete my plans,’ he declared. ‘It may not be necessary to go to Beust at all unless the trail leads to Vienna. A lot will depend on Carter.’

That young man, as cheerful as ever, entered the room presently. Wallace waved him to a chair.

‘Does the name Modjeska convey anything to you, Carter?’ he asked.

‘Yes, sir,’ replied the other promptly. ‘It was one of the names shouted by Casaroli just before Haeckel shot him.’

‘It was. Well, the individual in question is in London, staying at the Canute Hotel. He was there ten days ago, but has returned.
It seems fairly obvious that it was he whom Pestalozzi visited the night before his death. Major Brien suggested that an emissary of the anarchist organisation would be likely to come to London in order to discover if any information concerning them had fallen into the hands of the authorities. He also suggested that the Canute Hotel, having been used once, might be used again. As a result Maddison made enquiries. Modjeska arrived yesterday.’

Carter was leaning forward in his chair, his face alight with eagerness. At that moment he looked barely twenty-five, though he was in his thirty-second year.

‘Is he there under his own name, sir?’ he asked.

Sir Leonard nodded.

‘Now listen, Carter. I am determined to root out the whole gang of anarchists. It presents, I firmly believe, a terrible menace to all people of royal blood. At the moment we know little about the organisation, except that it has agents or sympathisers in twelve capitals of Europe, and that two important members of it are Modjeska and a man named Dimitrinhov. Fortunately Modjeska is in London, and our trail will commence with him. You are to go to the Canute Hotel, and take a room there. I want you to alter your appearance sufficiently to make yourself look like a man to whom the world has not been too kind. Appear resentful, sullen, and a trifle reckless, as though your woes have driven you to it. In short, I want you to appear the type of young fellow who would be likely to appeal to a man of Modjeska’s kidney. He is certain to be rather at a loss for help in acquiring the information he has, come to obtain. It would be a great step in our favour if he chose you. Don’t force yourself on his attention, mind – in fact avoid him, but air your grievances to the other guests pretty forcibly, taking care that he hears you
occasionally, especially when resentment at your hard lot causes you to utter revolutionary sentiments. You get the idea?’

‘Perfectly, sir,’ grinned Carter.

‘For heaven’s sake don’t go there looking as cheerful as that,’ commented Brien.

‘Not on your life, sir,’ returned Carter, and grinned more cheerfully than ever.

‘You must do your utmost to find out as much as you can about Modjeska,’ went on Sir Leonard. ‘I don’t want you to follow him when he goes out – we’ll see that he is well looked after in that way – of course, if you become so intimate with him that he invites you to go out with him, all the better. If you can search his belongings when he is out, however, you will probably be doing us far more service. Once you take a room in the Canute Hotel don’t visit any of your usual haunts – avoid this district entirely. Take care that there is nothing in your luggage to suggest that you are anything but what you appear to be, and let it be as meagre as possible. I will give instructions for either Shannon, Hill, or whoever happens to be available, to call in the buffet opposite platform number seven at Waterloo at nine every night. If you have anything to report, meet him there and deliver your message over a drink. You’d better not know each other, but you can stand by his side and whisper it or pass a written report to him. No doubt such precautions are not really necessary, but we must take no chances in this business, Carter. If anything happens which you wish to report at once, telephone, but use a public call box. Now are there any questions you want to ask?’

‘Only this, sir. Shall I carry a revolver?’

‘Don’t go unarmed from now on,’ returned Sir Leonard, ‘until this business is over, and always retain your revolver on your person
fully loaded. There is just one more thing, Carter. If it is possible, give me plenty of notice of Modjeska’s departure from England, and do your best – always remembering that it is essential no suspicion against you must be raised in his mind – to discover his destination, his route and the trains he travels by. When he goes, I want to go with him. Almost everything depends upon you, Carter. Remember I am relying on you.’

As the young man walked from the room, he unconsciously squared his shoulders; his form seemed somehow to become more athletic than ever – more upright, if that were possible. Sir Leonard Wallace and Major Brien watched him go; then turned and smiled at each other. In their eyes was confidence.

The Canute Hotel, in Waterloo Road, was flattered by Maddison when he called it a third-rate affair. It is doubtful if it was really worthy of being called fifth-rate. Its one great advantage from its proprietor’s point of view was that it was so close to Waterloo Station. People arriving by train late at night welcomed it as being very convenient, and the greatest trade was done with what the landlord called the bed and breakfast guests. Some visitors stayed for longer periods, but these were usually few and far between. There were others known as ‘regulars’, who, on their periodical jaunts to town from the country, were in the habit of taking rooms in the Canute. At the time when Carter booked a room there were, strangely enough, seven people there who could not be exactly described as bed and breakfast guests. Mr and Mrs Curzon, not being able to afford better quarters, always stayed there
on their visits to London. Mr Spedding had put up for one night and remained a month, principally because it was near St Thomas’s Hospital, and he hated moving about. Mr Hawthorne, the American with the lengthy name, had been recommended to the Canute by a porter who was pally with the proprietor. He announced his intention every morning of going, but always changed his mind. Nobody knew quite why he remained. He was obviously fairly well-off; could have afforded better quarters. Perhaps he, like Spedding, disliked moving. Julius Carberry, a commercial traveller, used the hotel because it was not only adjacent to the station, but quite close to the premises of the firm that employed him as well. He was waiting for fresh samples with which to go again on the travels that he fondly imagined were anticipated with delight by the females of the district he covered. Miss Veronica Simpson was timid, she was also a maiden lady who liked big, strong, protective-looking men. Mr John Fellowes, the landlord, was a big, strong, protective-looking man. Having arrived at Waterloo from the country, she had gone to the Canute Hotel with the idea of seeking other quarters on the following day. But when she saw Mr Fellowes she decided to remain in his hotel for the duration of her holiday in London. Ivan Modjeska, not being particular, not knowing London, had seen the words ‘Canute Hotel’ painted across a drab-looking building, and had sought it like a homing pigeon. That was on his first visit. It was natural that he should seek it again on his second.

Carter arrived at ten o’clock, carrying a large, worn suitcase, which seemed rather heavy, or perhaps he was tired. His overcoat had been good once, but had become shabby; his linen was
clean, but not over-clean. He wore an aggressive red tie and a hat which, like the overcoat, had seen better days. On his face was an expression of sullen discontent. Entering the door, he found himself in a narrow passage, caught a glimpse of a small, uninviting dining room through an open door on one side, looked into a poorly-furnished lounge on the other. A stout lady of uncertain age wearing pince-nez returned his glance over the top of an evening paper. A tiny office was at the end of the passage, and he walked towards it. At the desk sat a big man with a round, red face, a bristly moustache and somewhat colourless, though friendly, eyes.

‘Can I have a room?’ asked Carter.

‘Certainly, sir,’ replied the red-faced man in a deep ringing voice. ‘For the night only I presume?’

‘No,’ returned Carter; ‘I shall probably be here a week. I suppose you reduce your price for weekly guests?’

‘Are you weakly, sir?’ asked Mr Fellowes in real concern.

‘I mean, I suppose you reduce your terms for people who stay by the week?’

‘Oh! Well – er – yes, we do.’ He quoted a price.

‘All right,’ nodded Carter. ‘I suppose that’s as cheap as anywhere else. I can’t afford a great deal these days.’

‘Down on your luck, I take it,’ sympathised Mr Fellowes.

‘None of your business, is it?’ snapped Carter resentfully.

‘All right, young man,’ boomed the proprietor, ‘keep your hair on. If you have been hard hit, it don’t help being uncivil. Write your name there, and where you’ve come from.’

He pushed the book which Sir Leonard Wallace had examined with such interest towards Carter, and handed him a pen. There were six other names in it now – ‘bed and breakfasts’ presumably.
Carter wrote down his name with a flourish, added Guildford as the town from which he had arrived. That was truthful enough, for he had been born there. Mr Fellowes eyed him thoughtfully, scratched his head, and suggested a deposit. Carter grudgingly paid him a ten-shilling note.

‘Alfred!’ called the landlord, ‘come and take this gentleman’s bag up to sixteen.’

A boy in a rusty-looking black suit with tarnished buttons appeared on the scene from the inner recesses of the office. Carter regarded him with a frown, but felt greatly inclined to laugh. He could not have been more than four feet eight inches in height, and was distinctly weedy. He took the key of the room from the proprietor, and prepared to lift the bag.

‘All right, youngster,’ remarked Carter, ‘I’ll carry that.’

The boy seemed relieved. He led the way up a narrow staircase to the left of the office – the Canute Hotel did not possess a lift. They reached a landing on which were half a dozen numbered doors. Carter’s room was not on that floor, however; they ascended another two flights before number sixteen was reached. Alfred flung open the door with a flourish, and Carter peeped within. He found himself looking into a tiny chamber which was almost wholly taken up by a bedstead, dressing table, washstand, and miniature wardrobe. The furniture was of the cheapest variety, but one thing Carter noted with relief; everything looked very clean. Whatever could be said against the Canute Hotel, and there was a very great deal, uncleanliness was not one of its faults.

‘My hat!’ commented the young man. ‘What a room!’

‘What do you expect?’ demanded the boy cheekily. ‘A luxury sweet or wot?’

‘Don’t you get fresh with me,’ scowled Carter, ‘or I’ll put you across my knee and spank you.’

‘Garn! I’d like to see you try it, you big bully.’

‘Oh, you would, would you?’ Carter put down his suitcase and assumed a threatening attitude.

Alfred retreated to a safe distance. Then Carter smiled broadly, but not at the boy. It had suddenly occurred to him that Shannon would have had an uncomfortable time, if he had been sent to the hotel instead of him. He was tall enough, but the thought of the burly Shannon in that tiny bedroom was too much for his risible faculties.

‘Blimey!’ exclaimed Alfred. ‘It can smile.’

Carter promptly frowned.

‘Yes, it can still smile,’ he rejoined. ‘I wonder why? When you’ve been ill-treated by the bloated capitalists like a bit of dirt, trodden on, laughed at, pushed aside, it’s strange that you can smile, isn’t it, youngster? I hope you never have to put up with what I have.’

‘What’s ’appened to you, mate?’ asked Alfred with interest and a certain amount of sympathy.

‘Never you mind. Just you fight shy of capitalists, kings, and aristocrats. They’re nothing but bloodsuckers, damn them all!’

He abruptly entered the little bedroom. He heard Alfred slowly descending the stairs as though deep in thought, and was satisfied. He knew the boy would set the ball rolling – everyone in the hotel would know Carter’s sentiments, or rather pretended sentiments, before long.

At breakfast on the following morning he saw most of his fellow guests and, with the exception of two, they were exactly of the type he would have expected to find there. The small dining room possessed half a dozen tables, each seating four,
situated at exact distances apart. The pictures on the wall, most of which advertised some commodity or other, were also placed at regular intervals and at the same height. It was easy to see that Mr Fellowes’ military mind had directed the arrangement of the furniture. It was a pity, reflected Carter, that the service was not conducted in an equally precise manner. An untidy-looking waitress and a waiter with the doleful face of an undertaker looked after the requirements of the guests – when it occurred to them or some demand roused them to action. Carter was shown to a table in a corner, then left for ten minutes unattended. The pause certainly gave him time to study the other occupants of the room, and he became interested in two. One was a pale, effeminate gentleman with sleek, black hair, and eyes and lips that looked as though they had been made up. Carter shuddered slightly – he discovered afterwards that this was Julius Carberry, the traveller in lingerie. The other man who attracted his notice had followed him in, and taken a seat at the next table. He was lean and tall, with rather a gaunt face and deep-set grey eyes under large tortoise-shell-rimmed glasses. His mouth suggested a kindly nature and a great sense of humour. He looked about thirty-eight years of age. Carter decided that he was out of place in the Canute. His well-tailored suit, his linen, the air of distinction about him suggested that he belonged to a much higher stratum of society than the usual habitués of Mr Fellowes’ hotel. He appeared to be as interested in Carter as that young man was in him.

‘Guess they’re not very slick with the eats in these parts,’ he remarked suddenly.

Carter found his smile very attractive; decided that he liked him. But, true to the character he had assumed, he regarded
him sullenly as though resentful at being addressed.

‘It’s a wonder they don’t serve you at once,’ he grunted. ‘You look prosperous – I don’t.’

The other raised his eyebrows a little at the churlish remark.

‘It kinda looks as if something’s got your goat. Anything I can do to help? My name’s Hawthorne – Wilmer Peregrine Huckleberry Hawthorne.’

Carter felt inclined to laugh, but he maintained his morose attitude.

‘Why the dickens should I want to know your name?’ he snapped. ‘And I certainly don’t need your help, thanks.’

Mr Hawthorne’s eyebrows rose higher than ever.

‘Oh, well,’ he observed, ‘if that’s how you feel, I guess I’m sorry for butting in. Waiter,’ he called, ‘how about breakfast? I’m tired of acting as part of the scenery.’

His requirements were supplied after that. Carter also received attention. He noticed that both the waiter and the waitress regarded him curiously, as did two or three of the guests. He concluded that Alfred, the boy in buttons, had been talking. There was no sign of Modjeska. At least, none of the people busily engaged in taking in supplies looked like foreigners, except perhaps the fellow with the sleek hair and effeminate manner. But he was so obviously of a type unfortunately too common these days that the Secret Service man quickly put him aside. He would not have the nerve to be an anarchist, or in fact anything but the invertebrate Sardanapalus he was. Of course he may have been playing a part, but Carter was certain he was not.

He had almost finished breakfast, when a stoutish man of medium height entered the room. For a moment or two he
stood looking round him indecisively, and Carter studied him surreptitiously. He was well-dressed and prosperous-looking. A mass of black hair surmounted a broad forehead. His eyes were partially hidden by rimless pince-nez, but there was something piercing, almost hypnotic, in their brown depths. His nose was a trifle fleshy, his mouth thin-lipped. He had cheeks that sagged a little and a sallow complexion. Several rings adorned a pair of white, rather over-manicured hands. Carter noiselessly drew in his breath. He felt certain that the newcomer was Ivan Modjeska, proof positive coming when he heard the waiter address him by that name. Curiously enough he was conducted to Carter’s table. Before taking his seat opposite the man who was there for the express purpose of getting acquainted with him, he bowed politely.

‘You permit?’ he asked.

‘Of course,’ replied Carter ungraciously. ‘I haven’t booked the entire table.’

The man frowned, but made no comment. The service of breakfast went on, and, though he continued to study his table companion, Carter took care not to appear to do so. He had picked up a copy of the
Daily Express
, and was apparently reading that go-ahead journal. After some time he allowed a look of disgust to appear on his face, and threw the paper on the floor. The chatty American at the next table noticed the action. His eyes twinkled.

‘Read something you disagree with?’ he asked, forgetful or unmindful of the snub he had previously received.

‘I’m sick of all the King and Country stuff,’ snarled Carter, rising to his feet. ‘Perhaps if we had a revolution, England would be worth living in.’

‘Say,’ cried the American, ‘sentiments like that seem to me to smack of treason. I guess I’m a citizen of the States, but I like this little old country, and think your king’s sure the greatest asset you’ve got.’

‘You’re welcome to your opinion,’ returned Carter, ‘and I suppose I’m welcome to mine. Whatever else it may be, it’s supposed to be a free country, and one can say what one likes.’

‘In reason I guess, but there are some things that shouldn’t be said.’

Carter took no notice of the rebuke, but walked from the room, followed by the curious, and, in most cases, hostile glances of those who had overheard him. He sat in the lounge for an hour or so after breakfast pretending to read the very ancient magazines which littered the table in the centre of the room. He had hoped that someone who had listened to his remarks in the dining room would have commenced an argument with him and thus enable him to continue to air his supposed revolutionary opinions. Nobody addressed him, however, though most of the guests crowded into the lounge for a time and sat about with the bovine expressions on their faces which so many people seem to acquire after a meal. Neither Hawthorne nor Modjeska put in an appearance and, when Carter calculated that his room would have been tidied and his bed made by the chambermaid, he went upstairs. Closing the door he threw himself down and considered the position.

One of the most resourceful and astute of Sir Leonard Wallace’s assistants, Carter had one fault. That was an inclination to impetuosity. Fortunately for him, however, he knew that as well as anybody, and had learnt to control his ardour. All
his instincts, as he lay there, urged him to commence at once investigating the contents of Modjeska’s baggage. Caution warned him to wait. He had taken care to learn the number of the Pole’s room on the previous night, when signing his name in the hotel book. It was on the storey below the one on which his apartment was situated, and almost directly underneath. There could be no more ideal time, he considered, for entering and searching it, than directly after the servants had completed their work in the bedrooms, providing, of course, that Modjeska was out. As far as he had been able to ascertain, there were only four chambermaids – one to each floor – who did not remain on their landings when their tidying was done. Other guests would be the only danger, as far as he could see, but, if he chose his time well, when most of them were out, there would be little risk of his being interrupted. That risk would only exist during the short space of time it would take him to open the door of Modjeska’s room. Once inside he would be safe enough.