Wallace of the Secret Service

In accepting the invitation to write an introduction to certain records of the career of Sir Leonard Wallace, I was actuated not so much by the friendship and admiration I feel for the famous Chief of the Intelligence Corps, as by the fact that I was luckily instrumental in obtaining his services for the department. At the time of which I write, I was Secretary of State for Home Affairs, and Sir Leonard was recuperating, after being discharged from hospital, at the tiny seaside village of Kimmeridge in Dorset. He had been badly wounded in the left arm, and, with his great friend, William Brien, also on sick leave, and his charming wife, Molly, had originally gone to Kimmeridge merely to laze about, as he himself puts it. But that astuteness of his, which since has proved of such great value to the country, enabled him to ferret out a German submarine base actually on the Dorset coast. He immediately travelled up to London, and got into communication with me through his father, the Earl of Westcliff.

The story he told was astounding, and I found the utmost difficulty in crediting it. I was in favour of putting the matter in the hands of the Intelligence Department, and also making arrangements for a force of troops and a squadron of destroyers to proceed to the spot, but Sir Leonard – he was Major Wallace then – pointed out that the Germans would be certain to get wind of the operations against them, and decamp before there was time to invest their headquarters. He declared that he believed it to be not only a submarine base but also a distributing centre from where spies were sent to all parts of Great Britain. In reply to my question concerning what he himself proposed, he put before me a plan that for sheer ingenuity and daring almost took my breath away. He asked to be given charge of the affair, with full authority to call in the aid of the coastguards and troops from Wareham, if necessary. Naturally I was very reluctant, but he had impressed me so much by his obvious ability and sagacity that eventually I agreed, not without a great deal of misgiving, however.

The result was stupendous, and reads, even in the cold, official report, like a page from the chronicles of the old Greek and Trojan heroes. It is too long a story to tell here; perhaps some day it may be given to the public – I hope so, for it is quite one of his greatest exploits. Suffice it to say that, with Brien, Cecil Kendal, his brother-in-law, half a dozen troops from the camp at Wareham, and a few coastguards, he actually entered the large cave which the Germans had so ingeniously turned into a secret base and, effecting a complete surprise, captured five submarines and killed or captured their crews. Not only that, but he also apprehended several spies. Unfortunately he was shot again in his damaged arm during the fight, with the result that it was later found imperative to amputate it.

In a sense his triumph was one of the greatest feats of the War, for it not only badly interfered with Germany’s submarine campaign but supplied us with a mass of information that was priceless. Major Wallace richly deserved the KCB which was conferred on him and the full rank of colonel to which he was promoted. Brien received his majority and the CMG while others, who took part in the historic exploit, were adequately rewarded.

Without an arm, Sir Leonard’s active military career received a set-back, but it was impossible for such a man to be shelved. I suggested his being attached to the Intelligence Service, a suggestion received with enthusiasm by my colleagues, and immediately acted upon. It was not long before he became head of the bureau, and his work since then has been remarkably successful, bearing always the hall-mark of that astuteness, ingenuity, coolness, and wit which have always placed him above his fellows. Major Brien returned to the front, but after the War, at Sir Leonard’s special request, was transferred to his department.

I am delighted that certain deeds are now to be chronicled and given to the public. They should prove most absorbing to people who are interested in the workings of the Secret Service. Sir Leonard himself, though not actually objecting to the publication of his achievements, would much prefer, I think, that they were lost in obscurity. He is not the man to desire fame or notoriety; rather he prefers seclusion and privacy. His chronicler has, therefore, been forced to fall back on office records and information supplied by various members of the service who, once they understood there was no objection to their divulging certain happenings, eagerly prepared the way for the publication of a few of the exploits of the chief to whom they are all devoted.

Romance and adventure are not dead while there exist men
of the type of Sir Leonard Wallace. He proves that fact is stranger than fiction, and into the cold, matter-of-fact atmosphere of the twentieth century brings a flavour of daring enterprise that is reminiscent of more adventurous times. Yet to look at him you would not imagine that there were even the elements of romance and adventure in him, unless he gave you the opportunity of gazing deep into his expressive, steel-grey eyes. He is a slightly-built man of about five feet eight in height with an attractive but by no means handsome face, the curves of which show that he possesses a great sense of humour. He has an easy-going disposition, and rather gives the impression of being a man who loves to loiter his way through life. He has a cool, calculating mind, behind an unruffled exterior, which provides him with the imagination and quick perception that make him so successful in detective work. Perhaps his greatest asset is his unexcitable temperament and perfect self-control. I have known ministers of State exasperated at his nonchalance but, being no respecter of persons, that worries him not at all. I must confess to a sneaking fear that he does not always regard His Majesty’s statesmen with the respect they invariably think is their due.

Sir Leonard himself would be the first to admit that he owes a great deal to those assistants of his of whom the names of Major Brien, Cousins, Maddison, Carter and Shannon come most readily to mind. They have shared dangers and difficulties with him, or undertaken duties at his behest, which would cause the ordinary man to blench. Then there are the others of both sexes distributed throughout the world who, often carrying their lives in their hands, supply him with the information which enables Great Britain to deal with the delicate international situations which constantly arise, and combat the still frequent foreign plots. The agents, who live abroad, generally follow some harmless
profession in order to cloak their real activities, but their lives are full of danger, and they know well that once unmasked their chances of avoiding long terms of imprisonment, sometimes even death, are small indeed. Then there is the enormous office staff which deals with the many documents relative to foreign intrigue and international diplomacy. This staff nowadays is directly under the orders of Major Brien, an arrangement that saves Sir Leonard Wallace a considerable amount of routine work.

It is remarkable the degree of proficiency which the Intelligence Department has attained. Every branch dovetails into the others with meticulous exactitude, and the work proceeds day and night, quietly, silently, efficiently. Few people realise what the country owes to the gallant men of this silent service. To them fame and glory seldom come, riches never. Often they die shameful, inglorious deaths, honoured only by their colleagues, who mourn them mutely, unable to make public their devotion, or acknowledge them as associates. Theirs is the ideal patriotism, the love of country which takes no account of self, but is prepared to sacrifice home, family, everything for the sake of the land that gave them birth.

I do not feel that I can deal adequately with such a subject. The Secret Service has naturally far more to do with the Foreign Office than any other government department, and my political activities were mostly confined to the Home Office and law departments. However, as I have stated, I was associated with Sir Leonard Wallace in his first adventure, and I am honoured now to be associated, even though so insignificantly, with a volume narrating a few of his exploits.

C.

‘I’m worried, Bill, and there’s no use disguising it. It’s over a week now since we heard from Henderson.’

The speaker strolled to one of the two large windows, and eyed the busy stream of traffic passing in Whitehall almost as though he hoped to gain inspiration from it. The tall, fair man, whose upright carriage and small moustache suggested a soldier, remained standing by the large oak desk thoughtfully tapping his fingers on its polished surface.

‘It isn’t often you admit feeling worried,’ he commented. ‘Surely a week without news is not very disquieting. Perhaps circumstances have caused a delay, or Henderson has no news to send.’

‘He was ordered to keep in communication with us,’ retorted the other without turning round, ‘and he would have done so – if he could.’

The significance of the last three words was not lost upon Major Brien. The lids half-closed over his twinkling blue eyes, banishing their humour, and rendering them very nearly sinister.

‘Are you suspecting foul play?’

There was no answer, and he helped himself to a cigarette from a large silver box on the desk, apparently quite content to wait until his chief came out of the brown study into which he appeared to have fallen. Sir Leonard Wallace remained at the window for some minutes longer, then walked slowly back to the desk.

‘I am going out to Egypt myself,’ he announced quietly.

His companion looked sharply at him.

‘You really think it is serious then?’

‘Very serious,’ was the reply. ‘I believe that Henderson’s object has been discovered, and he himself imprisoned, or perhaps even assassinated.’

Brien’s lips pursed in a low whistle, but he smiled.

‘You’re imaginative this morning, Leonard,’ he observed.

‘Have you ever known me allow my imagination to run away with me?’ demanded the other sharply. ‘No, you haven’t!’ replying to his own question. ‘You possibly have not studied affairs in Egypt as I have. The country is seething with intrigue, and the extreme Nationalists under that impracticable fanatic, Zaghlul Pasha, are going to make a lot of trouble before very long.’

‘But, dash it all! The independence of Egypt has been recognised. What more do they want?’

‘My son, they want full control. They resent the powers which the British Government retain, particularly with regard to the Sudan. Henderson’s job, as you know, was to find out exactly what is happening; if possible to unmask any plot that might be brewing, and bring us details. All we’ve had from him was his code message a week ago saying that he was on the track of something
big. Since then there hasn’t been a word. It’s all wrong, Bill and I’m going to find out what has happened.’

He took a pipe from the desk, filled it from a large tobacco bowl, and lit it carefully. An onlooker would never have suspected that one of his arms was artificial, so cleverly did he use it. The only noticeable peculiarity was that his left hand was covered by a glove, which was seldom removed.

‘When are you leaving?’

‘Tonight. I thought at first of taking you with me, but it’s not necessary. Besides I may want you here.’

He walked to the fireplace, and stood with his back leaning against the high mantelpiece. He hardly gave one the impression that his mind was full of great issues; in fact he looked thoroughly indolent as he stood placidly puffing at his briar, and gazing round his comfortable office with an air of proprietorship.

It was a large room unusually well-furnished for a government office. The carpet which covered the floor was an Axminster; a warm-looking thick pile rug lay in front of the fireplace, which was deep and surmounted by a massive mantelpiece. A large, beautifully carved clock stood on the latter with heavy brass ornaments, reminiscent of the War, on each flank. Against the opposite wall of the room were bookshelves, containing practically every known reference book as well as voluminous reports from all the government departments. On one side of the great oak desk was Sir Leonard’s swing chair, on the other, two leather armchairs, another standing close to the fire. The desk itself was covered with official-looking documents and books, while from most of the available wall space hung maps. Obviously the office of a busy man, it was just as obviously the room of a man who liked comfort.

‘I think I’d better come with you,’ observed Brien. ‘If there’s likely to be trouble, I might come in useful.’

‘You might be very much in the way,’ was the blunt retort. ‘No, Bill, I’d much rather you remained at headquarters. I’ll go alone – I don’t think I’ll even take Batty with me.’

It was so unusual for Wallace to go abroad without his manservant that the frown on Brien’s face grew deeper, and his forehead became wrinkled with perplexity.

‘What is the game?’ he demanded.

‘Deck tennis and quoits on boardship,’ was the joking reply, ‘and possibly a round or two of golf in Cairo.’

Brien, muttering something that sounded uncomplimentary, threw himself into one of the armchairs.

‘What are the orders?’ he asked.

Wallace strolled back to the desk, sat himself in his chair, and leant towards his companion. All the flippancy was gone now from his face and manner, his whole attitude denoting grave purposefulness. For the next quarter of an hour he spoke rapidly, Brien listening to him intently and occasionally making notes in a small book that he had drawn from his pocket.

A few days later Sir Leonard arrived in Port Said on board an Italian mail boat from Brindisi. The pontoon had hardly connected the liner to the shore, when he was walking rapidly along it, followed by a man carrying his meagre luggage consisting of two large suitcases. He went direct to the Eastern Exchange Hotel, booked a room under the name of Collins, then choosing a secluded table, under the awning in front of the hotel, sat down and ordered coffee. He was pestered by the usual crowd of street vendors, conjurers and the like but chased them all away until a tall, good-looking native approached,
carrying upon his head a tray full of boxes of Turkish delight. Sir Leonard at first ignored him as he had done the rest, but presently, as though allowing himself to be persuaded, took a gaudily decorated box in his hand and asked the price. They were alone for the moment, and the seller of the sticky sweetmeat spoke in a low voice, but his reply had nothing to do with the question asked.

‘I received your cable, Excellency, and am here as you see. What is it you wish of me?’

‘Have you any news of Mr Henderson?’ asked Sir Leonard also in a low voice.

‘No; he was here two weeks ago, then left for Cairo.’

‘You have seen nothing of him since?’

‘Nothing.’

‘He had not communicated with us for over a week before I left England. I think his mission must have been discovered. I want you to trace him to Cairo, Achmet, and, if possible, find out what has happened to him there. I’ll wait here until I hear from you. But hurry; there may be no time to lose.’

‘I understand, effendi.’ Then, in a louder voice, for people had approached and several other vendors were nearby, he added: ‘I know you, Mr Macpherson; my name Macpherson too. Buy my Turkish delight – ver-ry good!’

Sir Leonard laughingly bought a couple of boxes, thinking of his little son’s glee when they were presented to him. The sight of their compatriot’s success caused a horde of the chattering Arabs to descend on Wallace with their goods and, to escape them, he was forced to retire into the hotel. In the meantime Achmet, one of the most astute members of the rank and file of the Secret Service, who cloaked his real identity under the guise
of a purveyor of Turkish delight, had slipped away and before long, through channels known only to himself, was commencing his task of tracing Henderson.

Three days passed slowly by, and Sir Leonard, having exhausted the diversions that Port Said presented for his amusement or delectation, impatiently awaited news from his assistant. It came in the form of a cryptic telegram regarding the despatch of curios to Europe. It did not take him long to decipher the message, and he frowned deeply at the news it contained. It told him, as he had feared, that Henderson was a prisoner in the hands of the people whose doings he had come to Egypt to study. Achmet was waiting in Cairo, and would watch at Shepheard’s Hotel for Sir Leonard’s advent.

That same afternoon the latter left for the capital, and on arrival was driven to the hotel. He still retained the name of Collins and let it be known that he was a retired army officer travelling for his health.

It was the wrong time of the year for tourists. The trouble in Egypt, too, was keeping a lot of visitors away. The hotel, therefore, was not overburdened with guests, a state of affairs which did not altogether please Sir Leonard. Inquisitiveness and speculation concerning him were more likely to be rife than if the hotel were crowded. However, it could not be helped; it behoved him to take extra precautions, that was all.

Achmet came to him before he had been long installed in the hotel. He wore now the dress of a dragoman, and had told the servant, who announced him to the Englishman, that he had been ordered to attend, as the white lord had need of his services on the various excursions he contemplated making to the pyramids and other places of interest. When they were together,
even though there was apparently no one within hearing of their conversation, little of a private nature passed between Wallace and his subordinate. The former merely detailed his plans for a trip up the Nile and asked Achmet to engage a
dahabeeyah
to be ready for him early the following morning. The spy stood obsequiously before the languid-looking Englishman, listening carefully to the instructions he was receiving, and appearing for all the world the typical dragoman.

Wallace had no intention of travelling up the Nile at all, but he was careful to give the appearance of complete innocence to his meeting with the Arab, knowing perfectly well that the main lounge of Shepheard’s was hardly the place, under any circumstances, in which to discuss confidential matters. Apart from that, Achmet on arrival had uttered a warning.

‘This place is full of spies,’ he had said, as he bowed low before the other. ‘Command me to engage a small
dahabeeyah
. Tomorrow we will go a few miles beyond Cairo for a little trip. It will be safer to speak then.’

Thus it was arranged, and Achmet departed. A little later Sir Leonard left the hotel for a stroll. It had been an intolerably hot day, but now, with the setting of the sun, a breeze had sprung up which materially cooled the atmosphere. He walked as far as the bridge, guarded so strikingly by the two bronze lions, and watched the heterogeneous crowd that was crossing over the Nile. Several years had passed since he had looked on that scene with its riot of gaudy colouring and its confused uproar, but nothing appeared to have altered. Motor cars, donkey carts, carriages, asses, and camels were mixed up in apparently hopeless disorder, but somehow managed to move and be content with the slowness of their pace. An ancient vehicle, drawn by a
donkey almost as ancient, and containing two veiled women, did manage to cause a stoppage by becoming entangled with a stylish carriage. The driver of the latter belaboured the donkey boy unmercifully, while the women added their shrill voices to the general din, but a policeman succeeded in separating the two vehicles and, with a final hearty cuff to the old donkey, sent the creaking cart on its way.

Wallace had watched the scene with amusement, indeed had even added his efforts to the process of extrication. At first he thought the carriage empty, but as it moved by he caught a glimpse of a pair of dark eyes, flashing seductively under thick black eyelashes. The woman, whoever she was, wore the thinnest of
yashmaks
, and it seemed to Sir Leonard that he could faintly discern a mocking smile lurking at the corners of her lips as she glanced at him. He wondered idly who she was, as he walked slowly back to the hotel, but soon forgot her existence.

After dinner that night, a note was brought to him and, feeling perplexed and a trifle concerned, he took it from the tray which the
soffraghi
held towards him. His mystification was further increased as he caught the elusive scent of some perfume and, for a moment, he balanced the note in his hand frowning thoughtfully. The waiter remained standing by and, on being told to go, informed Sir Leonard that an answer was awaited.

The Englishman then tore the envelope open, and extracted the half sheet of dainty notepaper which it contained. His bewilderment, instead of being diminished by what he read, increased to a state of sheer astonishment. There were only two sentences, and neither superscription nor signature. The writing was obviously that of a female.

For several moments Wallace sat staring at the paper in his hand, and he was doing the hardest thinking he had engaged in for some time. He was by no means a ladies’ man, his wife, Molly, being all in all to him, and not for one moment did he imagine that the dark-haired woman, of whom he had caught such a fleeting glance, had been attracted by him, and desired his acquaintance, merely for the sake of coquetry. There was something deeper underlying her motive in sending him such an extraordinary invitation. Of that he was assured. What could she have to tell him that would be to his advantage? And how did she know his spurious name? So many possibilities hinged on the note that a feeling of intense disquiet troubled him, and he came to the conclusion that speculation was useless.

‘Where is the messenger?’ he asked suddenly.

In the foyer, he was informed, and directed the waiter to lead him to the man. A gigantic Ethiopian stood stiffly at the entrance like a picturesque statue, but to all Sir Leonard’s questions he shook his head, either indicating that he could not answer them or did not understand. The situation was growing momentarily more perplexing, but, although anxious to solve the problem, he had no intention of accepting the invitation of the letter, and following the lady’s sable messenger. Bidding the
soffraghi
, who still remained in attendance, to tell the man to wait, he walked off to the writing room. Some instinct caused him to glance round after he had gone a few paces, and he saw the two in earnest conversation – much more earnest than
Wallace’s instruction to the waiter would appear to warrant. It looked as though the latter was in collusion with the other or, at least, knew more about the affair than a disinterested member of the hotel staff should know.