Wallace at Bay (9 page)

‘Oh,’ returned the Secret Service man, ‘how about your commencing the explanations?’

‘Yes; I daresay you have as much right to ask me as I have to ask you. We’re both in a darn predicament, I guess, like a couple of guys trying to spar with our eyes blindfolded. Perhaps you’ll start by putting me wise about one thing. What’s the big idea of the Bolshie stunt? You sure took me in, and, to judge from what I’ve heard, you’ve taken in everyone else in this all-fired joint. But you’re no more a communist than I am.’

‘Are you sure of that?’

‘Of course I’m sure. There’s a subtle difference in you now, your face is different, though your clothes aren’t. But I reckon, looking at you now, that you’re not in the habit of being so slovenly, in your personal appearance. And, gee! That tie! Say, Mr Carter, it gives me a pain.’

‘I feel ill myself when I look at it,’ admitted Carter. ‘Luckily, once it’s on, I don’t have to look at it.’

‘Well, what’s the answer?’

‘I’m afraid there is none – at least, not until I know something more about you.’

‘And, as I can’t tell you anything about myself until I know you’re on the level, we sure are the world’s pet dumb oysters, aren’t we?’ He sat regarding Carter quizzically for a few moments. ‘Well, I guess there’s no more to be said. Yes, there is,’ he added quickly, ‘there’s one question you won’t mind answering, I think. Were you in Grote’s room for the purpose of lifting the dough in that bag?’

‘No; I didn’t know it was there until I saw it.’

‘When you saw it, was it your idea to lift it? I mean, would you have helped yourself to it, if I hadn’t happened along?’

‘No, certainly not.’

‘Well, that’s good enough for me. You’re not a Bolshie and you’re not a crook. I didn’t think you were the second, anyway.’

‘I am going to ask you the same question. Not that asking a question of that sort is a great deal of good anyway. We may both be lying.’

‘But we’re not,’ observed Hawthorne.

Carter eyed him steadily.

‘No, we’re not,’ he decided after a slight pause. ‘Do you happen to be an American crook who, knowing that Grote was carrying all that money about with him, was waiting for an opportunity to rob him, and did you enter his room with that purpose?’

‘No to both questions,’ replied Hawthorne promptly. ‘I admit, though, that I knew he was packing a mighty large wad.’

‘It amounts to about three hundred thousand dollars.’

Hawthorne nodded his head.

‘I calculated it would be about that figure,’ he admitted. ‘I’ll tell you this much, Mr Carter – it’s not clean dough, not one darn plunk of it.’

‘Then I have guessed right. You are a member of the United States police force?’

Hawthorne had a most attractive smile. Carter thought so, as he observed it now.

‘I am and I’m not,’ was the American’s paradoxical reply.

‘That’s exactly what I expected you to say, somehow,’ commented Carter. ‘I don’t quite know why. Well, as neither of us can tell the other much, suppose we both agree not to give each other away? I remain a red-hot communist, you continue to be a businessman interested in steel cables.’

‘That goes with me,’ agreed Hawthorne; then added in regretful
tones, ‘though I guess if we could get together we could help each other some. Have another drink?’

Carter accepted.

‘I believe,’ he remarked, ‘that I have the advantage of you to a certain extent. I know that you were watching Modjeska when he went to Shirland Road, Maida Vale, yesterday. I also know that you were at Waterloo last night and saw him meet Grote.’

Hawthorne paused in the act of pouring whisky into his companion’s glass. He frowned a little.

‘Say,’ he demanded, ‘have you been trailing me?’

‘No. As a matter of fact I thought you were trailing me. Didn’t you follow Modjeska and me to Maida Vale yesterday?’

‘I did not. Say when!’

Carter obliged, the American added a little soda to the whisky, and handed the glass back. He proceeded to replenish his own tumbler.

‘It was sheer coincidence then,’ pursued the Englishman, ‘that you happened to be on the spot yesterday afternoon?’

‘You’re asking questions again, but I don’t mind answering that one. It was not coincidence. I expected Modjeska to turn up in Shirland Road sooner or later. I was on the watch for him.’

‘I wonder why,’ murmured Carter.

‘Go on wondering,’ grinned Hawthorne. ‘It don’t cost anything. But say,’ he added, looking really perturbed this time, ‘I didn’t see you. Have you told Modjeska you saw me?’ Carter shook his head. ‘That’s a relief. You’d sure queer my pitch, if you did. Have you any objection to telling me why you went with him to Shirland Road, and why you were keeping watch?’

‘I wasn’t keeping watch. He had had some difficulty in finding the place, and asked me to help. I think he was rather shy of asking,
and besides he pronounced the name wrongly. I left him there, and was about to return when I glanced round, and saw you.’

‘And you say you were not trailing me when I went to Waterloo last night? I guess you were trailing him then.’

‘No, I happened to be there, and saw you. Naturally I wondered what you were up to, and watched. In consequence I also witnessed the arrival of Grote and his meeting with Modjeska. I also discovered that, for some reason or other, you were greatly interested in their movements. Your obvious desire not to be seen convinced me that you were known to Grote and had no wish that he should meet you.’

Hawthorne groaned.

‘I guess I’ve been a darn fool,’ he declared. ‘There was I thinking I was so mighty slick, and all the time my movements were being observed by you. Gee! If you’d been in with them––’ The thought seemed to give him very great concern. His lips pursed together, and he lapsed into silence. Presently an expression of perplexity settled on his face. ‘I wish I knew where you and I stand in relation to each other in this business,’ he observed. ‘We both seem to be on the same lay, and it looks like we might be allies. Yet, on the other hand, it is possible our objects may be in opposition. We can’t find out, because neither you nor I are going to spill the beans about ourselves. You think I’m connected with the USA police – I’ve got a hunch now that you’re not unconnected with little old Scotland Yard.’

‘New Scotland Yard,’ corrected Carter with a smile.

‘Anyway, I guess you’re on the level, but I daren’t take a chance.’

‘Same here,’ nodded the Englishman. ‘But why worry? We have agreed not to give each other away. You can rely upon me, and I jolly well know I can rely on you.’

Hawthorne smiled.

‘That’s so,’ he agreed, and held out his hand. ‘Shake!’

They solemnly and firmly clasped hands. Carter finished his drink and rose.

‘I’d better go before people commence to return for luncheon,’ he remarked. ‘It won’t do your character any good, if it becomes known that you are friendly with a fiery communist.’

‘I guess not,’ returned Hawthorne, his eyes twinkling humorously. ‘You won’t see me at lunch, tea, or dinner. It’s as much as I can stand to sleep in this darn joint, and have breakfast here.’

‘You weren’t at breakfast this morning.’

‘Nope. I had it up here. While Grote stays, Wilmer P. H. Hawthorne keeps coyly out of sight. I guess that guy would have a mighty bad fit if he knew I was here.’

‘He might see your name in the book, or Modjeska may mention it to him.’

‘That won’t cut any ice.’

‘You mean the name is false?’

‘Well, I reckon I should hate like hell to be attached to a name like that, if it was real.’

Carter laughed.

‘It certainly proves that you possess a fertile imagination.’

‘I chose it because, nobody would suspect it to be an alias. What guy, who was travelling under false colours, would choose Wilmer Peregrine Huckleberry Hawthorne? Anyone who heard it would reckon that such a name could only have been given by misguided parents. Now if I had called myself William Brown or John Smith or––’

‘Or Tommy Carter,’ interposed that young man, ‘you would expect people to think that your name was adopted.’

‘Is yours an alias?’ asked Hawthorne.

‘No; it’s my very own.’

‘I calculated it was. You don’t look as though you lack intelligence.’

At that Carter laughed outright.

‘You mean that it is too obvious sounding an alias to be an alias?’ he chuckled.

‘Sure. I guess you get me. Well, Tommy, I seem to have said a good deal more than I should, but I’m not worrying. You and I are far more likely to turn out to be allies than enemies. By the way, have you any objection to my calling you Tommy? It’s a habit of mine to use first names, when I know them. I reckon that’s what they’re for anyway.’

‘I don’t mind at all,’ Carter assured him. ‘Most of my friends call me Tommy, and I believe you and I are going to be friends.’

‘We sure are.’

‘May I know your real name?’

Hawthorne regarded him with a whimsical smile.

‘I guess not – not just yet. If you don’t mind, I’ll remain Wilmer Peregrine and the rest to you for the present.’

There came a knock on the door. The two men looked questioningly at each other. Carter quickly stepped out of sight, while the American opened it. Outside stood one of the chambermaids.

‘Cable for you, Mr Hawthorne,’ she announced.

‘Now isn’t that nice? You’re sure a kind-hearted girl to bring it right up. How did you know I was in?’

‘Your key wasn’t hanging with the others.’

‘But I might have taken it out with me. I often do. Anyhow it’s swell of you.’

He tipped her, and closed the door. Taking care that Carter was not near enough to be able to read the cable, he quickly tore open the envelope. At once an expression of beatific happiness spread over his face. Carter gathered that the message had nothing to do with his work.

‘Bless every hair of her lovely head,’ murmured the American, and his companion felt as though he were intruding. He walked towards the door, and was about to go out. ‘This is from my wife,’ announced Hawthorne, putting out a hand to stop him. ‘She’s a great girl, Tommy; you’d love her. Don’t go for a moment. It’s good to be able to talk to someone about Joan. It’s mighty lonesome without her. She and I have been married nearly four years, but I hate like hell being parted from her. Guess we’ll have another drink to toast her.’

Carter was not particularly anxious for any more, but he could not very well refuse with such a purpose in view. Their glasses replenished, they raised them with great solemnity.

‘Joan!’ murmured the American.

‘Mrs Hawthorne,’ said Carter.

The toast was drunk; then Hawthorne laughed.

‘You startled me with that name for a moment,’ he remarked. ‘Gee! I don’t like it attached to Joan somehow. It don’t fit. She’s a swell kid to send me a cable, don’t you agree, Tommy?’ Carter assured him that he certainly did. ‘She’s English,’ went on the American, ‘and every year spends a holiday over here. I have never been able to accompany her yet, but she’s going to join me when – when my job is finished, and by heck! We’re going to make little old England sit up and take notice. I have a picture of her with me. Like to see it?’

Carter nodded with an eagerness not altogether assumed. He
felt he would be interested to see what kind of a wife Hawthorne possessed. The latter took a photograph – postcard size – from his pocket book; handed it almost reverently to the Englishman. Carter gave one glance at it; then sank weakly into a chair.

‘Good Lord!’ he exclaimed. ‘Shannon’s sister! Then you must be Oscar Miles, the Chief of the United States Secret Service!’

The man who called himself Wilmer Peregrine Huckleberry Hawthorne stood looking down at his companion as though dumbfounded. There was silence for quite an appreciable period.

‘Do you mean to say,’ he demanded at length, ‘that you know Hugh Shannon?’

‘I do – very well indeed,’ Carter assured him. ‘In fact he is one of my best pals. Furthermore, Joan and I are excellent friends also.’

‘Well, can you beat that?’

‘You and I have never met before, because Joan has always come to England without you. Nevertheless, I know all about you, of course. I hoped one day to meet you – now I have.’

‘I guess this is the strangest thing ever, Tommy. Now I think about it, she has spoken of a guy called Carter. He, like her brother, is in the Secret Service.’

‘Useless to deny it,’ smiled Carter. ‘At least we do know where we stand now.’

‘Fancy little Joan, thousands of miles away, sending a cable which was instrumental in removing our impasse. Gee! This is a funny world. I guess I’d better tell you right now that I’m not over here on any stunt likely to be of disadvantage to Great Britain. If it wasn’t that my mission was confidential, I’d have gone right along to Sir Leonard Wallace, and let Hugh know I was across just as soon as I had stepped out of the train. At any rate I meant to look the old firm up before I went back. Now I know who you are, I don’t mind telling you what I’m doing over here – I understand, also, a whole lot that was puzzling me before.’ He took back the photograph which Carter was holding out to him. ‘Gee!’ he murmured. ‘Isn’t she just the cat’s whiskers?’

He put the picture away; then, unbuttoning his waistcoat, opened it out in order to show Carter a badge pinned inside. The Englishman immediately recognised it as the emblem of the Federal Secret Service worn by all officers of that important branch of the United States Department of Justice. Appreciating the act, Carter, in return, produced his warrant.

‘Guess any lingering doubts are plumb removed now,’ commented the American with a smile, as he buttoned his waistcoat. He pulled up a chair close to the one in which Carter was sitting and, placing himself firmly in it, leant forward. ‘I am going to put you wise right now to the reason why I’m so darn interested in Grote and Modjeska. For the last year communists have been almighty active in the USA in a secretive kind of way, a way which I decided was a great deal more dangerous than spouting hot air at meetings. A lot of fiery rhetoric does nobody any harm; it lets off steam and that’s all, which is all to the good. But I sure
didn’t like the innocent, secret business. It seemed to me to mean trouble. I put on all my best men to investigate without much result. One of them, however, got wise to the fact that Hermann Grote, who was in business in a big way in New York City, was somehow connected with the activity. After that we just kept our eyes peeled and everything Grote did was noted. But was that guy coy? I’m telling the world that he’s as bashful as a girl at her first party; that is, where his underground operations are concerned. We couldn’t get a real line on to what was happening for a mighty long time. We opened both his incoming and outgoing letters, went through his office and his home with a small tooth comb, practically without result. All we did find, and I guess it was useful enough, as it turned out, was a very innocent document signed by a man called Vladimir Dimitrinhov saying that the society was badly in need of funds, and that operations would shortly commence. There was no address on the letter, not even a date. But the envelope was postmarked “Vienna”.

‘An agent was sent to Austria to find out all he could about the guy Vladimir. He has not been heard of from that day to this, and he left the United States three months ago. I guess they got wise to him over there. Since then two other agents of ours have been found mysteriously murdered – one in Cincinnati, the other in Boston. The second was not quite dead, when he was picked up, and he had just time to gasp out, “Anarchists – extermination of royalty – collecting funds – devilish plot” before he croaked. After that I took an active hand in the game. A cable arrived for Grote a couple of weeks back. Of course it was in code, but we didn’t need wet towels round our heads to decipher it. We have a department like yours which is pretty slick at figuring out things like that. It was from a guy calling himself Ivan Modjeska. He said it was
imperative for Grote to cross to Europe bringing supplies with him. Modjeska would be staying at the Canute Hotel, London, and would meet him if he would cable the date of his arrival. Grote promptly sent back a reply, also in code, indicating that he would arrive on March the twelfth. Well, I guess I just packed my bags, and came right over. I reckoned it would be a fool’s game to travel with a man who knew me by sight; besides, I wanted to get wise to Modjeska before Grote turned up. That’s about all, I guess.’

‘Thanks for telling me,’ acknowledged Carter. ‘There’s no doubt now that, as you would put it, we are on the same lay. There’s only one thing you haven’t explained.’

‘Shoot!’ invited the American tersely.

‘What made you anticipate that Modjeska would go to Shirland Road, and what did you expect to learn there?’

‘I knew all about that anarchist affair, and when I heard Modjeska enquiring from the boss of this joint where Sheerland Road was, I just naturally guessed he meant Shirland Road, and put two and two together. It hadn’t occurred to me before that the house your police raided and Modjeska had anything in common, but I knew then. I was darn curious to know what he expected to find there. He went down to the basement, and a woman answered his knock. He was only there a few minutes, so I reckon he didn’t get what he went for.’

‘An ice cream vendor and his family live in that basement,’ explained Carter. ‘Between you and me, Modjeska and his pals are exceedingly worried. As all their emissaries were killed, they have no means of knowing what roused suspicions, or whether the authorities are in possession of any information regarding the society. Modjeska apparently thinks the ice cream merchant might be able to tell him something, as he lives in the same house.’

‘Is he connected with the gang?’

‘No; and I don’t suppose he can help Modjeska in the slightest degree. Poor Ivan; I can sympathise with him in his troubles. His only alternative is to enquire of the police, and somehow I don’t think he will do that.’

The American chuckled.

‘Not on your life, even if he were the cutest guy on two legs, with a cast-iron story about an erring brother and a dying mother. There’s not a great deal in Ivan except his admiration for Modjeska. Say,’ he added, ‘what did rouse police suspicions against those anarchists?’

Carter smiled enigmatically.

‘Ask Sir Leonard Wallace,’ he returned.

His companion clicked his tongue a trifle impatiently.

‘Gee! Open out a bit, Tommy. I’ve spun my yarn to you, and I guess it’s up to you to respond some.’

‘I’ll tell you this much. The anarchists were here with the purpose of murdering King Peter when he visited England recently. It was to be the first step in their proposed extermination of all royalty.’

The American whistled.

‘Then I guess poor Hamilton was not raving when we found him dying. Well, I’ve got to admit that you’ve handed me one item of information, you darn clam.’

Carter regarded him seriously.

‘There’s no reason,’ he observed, ‘why your department and mine shouldn’t run in double harness in this affair, Mr Miles. I suggest––’

‘For the love of Mike,’ interrupted the other, ‘don’t Mister me. My name’s Oscar, and if Tommy’s good enough for me, surely Oscar’s good enough for you.’

Carter nodded with a smile, and rose.

‘I’d better go. If I may make a suggestion, I think you will be well-advised to see Sir Leonard Wallace as soon as possible. I can’t tell you much – I haven’t the right – but I’ve no doubt he will. In this business there’s no reason, as far as I can see, why the two departments should not join forces. You once helped our men in India, and you may be sure Sir Leonard will be only too willing for us to work together now, especially as our aims are more or less identical.’

‘I guess you’re right, Tommy. Where do you think I’d better see him?’

‘Ring him up from a public call box. He’ll arrange the appointment. He will probably have you shadowed to his office to make certain that nobody suspicious is shadowing you, so you needn’t be worried on that score. I don’t think it is likely anybody but Grote would be interested in your movements, and he, we presume, does not know you are here; still there’s no knowing. You might have been trailed from New York.’

‘I’m darned sure I wasn’t.’

Carter managed to leave the room without being seen by anybody, though he had a narrow escape. He was going up to his bedroom when he heard footsteps on the first flight of stairs. Glancing over the banisters he observed Modjeska and Grote walking towards their rooms. It would have been distinctly awkward had they caught a glimpse of him emerging from Miles’ room; not that they had any suspicion of the man who called himself Hawthorne, but knowing Carter to be ostracised by the hotel guests, it would naturally strike them as strange that he was so friendly with one that he visited him in his room. Their surprise and consequent curiosity might then lead them to take an interest
in Miles that could only end by being disastrous to him and to Carter as well.

That afternoon the Secret Service man locked himself in his room, and wrote a long and detailed report for Sir Leonard Wallace. He repeated almost word for word his secret conversation with Modjeska, told of the arrival of Grote, and his surreptitious introduction to the German-American. He then went on to describe the discovery he had made in the newcomer’s room, the appearance of the man calling himself Hawthorne, and the subsequent revelation that he was Oscar J. Miles, the Chief of the United States Secret Service. He concluded by assuring Sir Leonard that if anything urgent came of his coming conversation with Modjeska, he would telephone him in the morning.

It was teatime long before he had finished, and, in consequence, he missed the meal beloved of ladies, curates and government clerks. That did not worry him, however. The anaemic-looking liquid served as the beverage at the Canute Hotel was extremely unpalatable – enough, as Carter mentally phrased it, to cause anyone to forsake ambition, and go on the dole. He went out to find relaxation, his precious package being carefully placed in his inner breast pocket. Making his way to the Tivoli, he spent a couple of hours watching the films, after which he returned to the hotel, and, with his face set again in its discontented scowl, waited moodily for dinner. The stony silence, the stonier looks of the four or five fellow guests sitting there eventually got on his nerves; he gave up the unequal contest and retired to his room. At least he could sit there without finding cold, contemptuous eyes staring at him from every direction. For the first time in his life Carter realised what a terrible thing it is to be regarded with scorn by one’s fellow creatures.

He had hardly entered his room, when his acute powers either of observation or instinct warned him that it had been searched. He stood by the door looking round him. The toilet articles on the dressing table, his shaving tackle on the washstand were neatly arranged, but he knew they were not in the positions in which he had left them. Feeling distinctly uneasy, he dragged his battered suitcase from under the bed and opened it. Here again articles were placed in orderly disposition, but were not as he had left them. A pad of cheap notepaper which he had brought with him, and used for the purpose of his reports to Sir Leonard, lay on top. He remembered distinctly putting it underneath the clothing. There was not a thing in the suitcase which could create suspicion. The shirts, collars and socks were old and worn – he had taken especial care that everything would suit the character he was playing. There was, he felt, no reason for alarm, still the feeling of uneasiness persisted. It was only natural, he argued, that Modjeska and Grote should wish to ascertain that they were not deceived in him – it was unlikely that anyone else would have been interested enough in him to have searched his belongings. The anarchists must have been reassured by their failure to find anything that might have caused them to have doubts about him. Even the revolver was in his hip pocket, though they would hardly have considered that an article of suspicion. Nevertheless, he could not altogether eradicate a vague feeling of alarm.

Suddenly he gave vent to a little cry of dismay. What a fool he had been! He had quite overlooked the fact that the blotting paper on the pad would bear telltale marks. Quickly he opened the tablet, and a sigh of relief escaped from him. The blotting paper had not been removed, it was still there. He carried it across to the looking glass; held it up in order that he could examine it
closely. It had been used so much that it was almost black with ink, but here and there words were decipherable. He was greatly reassured to find that none of them were of any importance. If the blotting paper had been inspected it had told the intruder or intruders nothing. Nevertheless he felt a deep sense of chagrin that he had been so careless. Taking care to remove or destroy what might have been a damning piece of evidence against him was, after all, an elementary precaution. He counted the sheets of paper remaining in the pad and, making a swift calculation, decided that two or three had been removed, apart from those he had used. The realisation of that caused him to smile. He had employed an exceedingly soft-running fountain pen, and was, in addition, a very light writer. There could, therefore, be no pressure of words left on the sheets beneath. To make absolutely certain he wrote a few words; then subjected the next page to a close scrutiny. There was not a mark of any kind.

The dinner bell rang, and he descended, feeling easy in his mind once again, though he was still annoyed with himself for having overlooked the blotting paper. He underwent his usual experience in the dining room, but ate in stolid and sullen silence. The two foreigners eyed him from time to time, but took no more notice of him than the others. Afterwards he put on his overcoat and hat; went for a circuitous stroll, as he had done the preceding night, and entered the buffet at Waterloo a few minutes after nine. Hill was leaning on the counter engaged in conversation with the girl who had before served him. Carter remarked with a smile that they seemed to be getting on exceedingly well together. There were few other people present, and he and Hill had that part of the bar practically to themselves.