Wallace of the Secret Service (20 page)

‘So Trotsky is here?’ murmured Wallace. ‘This is very
interesting.’ He studied the expression of smug satisfaction on the other’s face. ‘I suppose you expect the tables to be turned now?’

Lenin shrugged his shoulders.

‘Did you really think such a plan as yours would succeed?’ he jeered.

‘I certainly did – and do,’ was the sharp reply.

Cousins opened the door and looked in.

‘There is a company of men marching towards us along the road, sir,’ he reported, ‘and others are closing in on both sides.’

Sir Leonard sat deeply thoughtful for several seconds. Then he made up his mind.

‘We are at a disadvantage inside,’ he observed.

Although he spoke in English, Lenin understood. ‘That is very true,’ he chuckled, ‘and so, my friend, I—’

Wallace ignored him.

‘There’s only one thing for it,’ he said to Shannon. ‘Lenin and I will travel on the roof until we are safely through. Bundle him up, will you? There’s no time for ceremony.’

Grinning all over his face, Shannon grabbed the Russian Dictator, and hauled him struggling from the car. Vassiloff made an attempt to go to his leader’s assistance, but the cold muzzle of Sir Leonard’s revolver at his temple caused him to change his mind, and sink back into his seat. Shannon lifted Lenin over his head at the full stretch of his arms, stepped on the running-board, and deposited his burden on the roof as though he had been a sack of potatoes. Shouting execrations the Russian attempted to jump down, but Cousins was covering him with a revolver, and he desisted.

‘Get inside, Shannon, and look after Vassiloff,’ ordered Sir Leonard. ‘Hold this for me, Cousins, while I climb on top.’

He handed his revolver to the little man and, with amazing celerity, considering that he had only one hand, drew himself on to the roof of the car, and sat down beside Lenin. Cousins handed him the revolver, and was directed to drive slowly on.

By this time the Russian troops had approached quite close and, seeing the car advancing, the officer in charge of those in front halted his men and entirely blocked the road. He held up his hand and, when within ten yards of him, Cousins, at a word from his chief, stopped the vehicle.

‘You are my prisoners,’ stated the officer in loud, ringing tones. ‘It will be to your advantage to surrender quietly.’

‘As you observe,’ replied Sir Leonard in French, a language which he spoke much better than Russian, ‘I have Monsieur Lenin up here with me. Any attempt to fire at me, or in any way interfere with us, will end in his death. I ask you, therefore, to draw your men aside, and let us pass.’

The young man looked astounded.

‘You – you do not mean that it is your intention to – to murder Monsieur Lenin,’ he stammered.

‘Not murder,’ protested Wallace; ‘that is hardly a nice word, is it? It is my intention, however, to leave this country safely and, until we are across the border into Poland, Messieurs Lenin and Vassiloff remain with us as hostages. It would be easy enough for you to order us to be shot where we are, but before any of your bullets could reach me, mine will blow out Monsieur Lenin’s brains. I hope that is quite clear.’

The officer stood indecisively swinging a revolver in his hand. He found the situation beyond him. His orders had been to take these men dead or alive, and rescue the Dictator and the Commissary. It was perfectly obvious, however, that a situation of
stalemate prevailed. He dare not risk the life of the head of Soviet Russia; yet it was impossible either to kill or capture the man, who sat there defying him, without doing so. Impatiently he clicked his tongue.

‘This is a ridiculous situation, sir,’ he exclaimed. ‘I advise you, for your own good, to surrender Messieurs Lenin and Vassiloff to me.’

Sir Leonard laughed.

‘Don’t be foolish,’ he remonstrated. ‘They will be returned to you undamaged and none the worse for their brief captivity directly we cross the frontier, not before. Of course it is in your power to kill us at once, if you are prepared to face Russia afterwards with the knowledge that you were also responsible for the deaths of my two prisoners. You may have an army behind you, but I hold the whip-hand. What do you propose to do?’

Probably very much to his relief, the officer was saved from the necessity of making a decision. The deep and impatient note of a motor car horn could be heard from the rear of his company, a message was passed along to him, and promptly he drew his men on one side. It was done so smartly that Wallace nodded approval. A military car appeared, and drove up to within a few yards. Two men emerged from the interior, one in the uniform of a general, the other in plain clothes. It was upon the latter that Wallace fixed his gaze.

‘Have I the honour of addressing Monsieur Trotsky?’ he asked.

‘You have,’ came the reply in harsh, staccato tones. ‘How is it my orders have not been obeyed? Who are you, and why are you and my colleague Lenin sitting up there?’

Sir Leonard explained, taking care to keep his revolver within an inch or two of Lenin’s head. When he had finished Trotsky’s eyes
narrowed, he drew his companion aside, and they spoke excitedly together. At length apparently they had decided what course to pursue. Trotsky turned and looked up at Wallace.

‘Let Comrades Lenin and Vassiloff go,’ he said, ‘and you will receive safe-conduct to the border.’

Sir Leonard smilingly shook his head.

‘I am sorry,’ he replied, ‘I cannot agree. I will not free either of my hostages until my companions and I are in Poland.’

‘You will not accept my word that you will be allowed to pass?’

‘I regret I cannot.’

Trotsky flushed with anger. For some moments he paced the road biting his nether lip; at length he shrugged his shoulders.

‘Very well,’ he snapped, ‘you will be allowed to proceed.’

Lenin muttered something under his breath; then addressed Trotsky loudly:

‘You know what the result will be?’

The War Minister of the Soviet Government once again shrugged his shoulders.

‘Exactly, my friend Lenin,’ he returned, ‘but it cannot be helped, unless you are willing to give your life to prevent such vital information from reaching our enemies. If such a noble act is your intention,’ he added, ‘I will promise you that your assassins will be hanged immediately afterwards from the highest trees in the neighbourhood.’

Lenin’s face went absolutely bloodless, and he shrank back. Trotsky smiled sarcastically, and gave orders to the officer in charge of the troops.

‘I shall be obliged if you will go ahead, Monsieur Trotsky,’ said Sir Leonard, ‘in order that there can be no danger of our being molested.’

Trotsky and his companion entered their car, which was turned and driven back the way it had come. Cousins slipped in his gears, and followed close behind. As they passed through the ranks, the men looked curiously up at the two figures on the roof, Lenin clinging to his undignified perch as though afraid of falling, Wallace holding his revolver close to the head of the man who ruled Russia’s millions. It was an unforgettable scene, and did irreparable damage to Lenin’s prestige. From that time his authority began to wane. The encampment extended for five miles, and Sir Leonard whistled under his breath as he made a rough calculation of the probable number of men there under arms.

The car ahead stopped as soon as the boundary of the military lines was reached, and Cousins was waved on. Wallace saluted Trotsky as he passed, and received, in return, a perfunctory nod. Three miles farther on he and his prisoner descended from the roof of the car, and got inside. They had almost reached the frontier when an idea occurred to Sir Leonard, and he ordered Cousins to stop. Leaving Shannon to watch the Russians, he took the little man aside.

‘It is almost certain,’ he remarked, ‘that the Polish authorities will have been notified of our coming, and asked to detain us as escaped political prisoners. Such an eventuality may possibly lead to our being handed over, and we must not risk a misfortune of that nature. We’ll send Lenin and Vassiloff back in the car from here, hide until nightfall, then sneak over the frontier. Understand?’

‘Yes, sir,’ replied Cousins, ‘but supposing neither Lenin nor Vassiloff can drive?’

‘We’ll have to get rid of them some other way, that’s all.’

‘I hope we do get rid of them,’ murmured the little Secret
Service man. ‘Personally I’d rather be hail fellow well met with a pack of hungry wolves than exist in the same country as these two. Why, the shape of Lenin’s head is enough to—’

‘What’s the matter with his head?’ demanded Wallace.

Cousins smiled and quoted:

‘“For burglars, thieves and co., Indeed I’m no apologist, But I some years ago, Assisted a phrenologist”.’

It turned out that both men could drive, and were only too relieved to get away. The Englishmen watched the car out of sight, after which they turned their steps southward for a few miles, until they found an ideal hiding place less than a hundred yards from the frontier. All the rest of the day they lay hidden, suffering the pangs of hunger and thirst rather than risk discovery. Wallace removed his disguise. The manoeuvres of two Russian aeroplanes interested them; it was obvious they had been sent to discover what had happened to the fugitives, possibly in response to a notification from the Polish authorities that they had not been seen. However, despite the fact that they flew very low and spent hours in the neighbourhood, Wallace and his companions escaped discovery. Late at night they crept across the border, and made their way to the railway line, where they were lucky enough to clamber onto a slowly moving goods train, and hide themselves under the tarpaulin of an empty wagon. The train reached Brest Litovsk early in the morning, and was shunted to a siding. Making certain that all was clear, the fugitives climbed out, and separately and cautiously walked to the station. Thence they travelled by different routes to Berlin where they again met and, without further precautions, continued their journey to England together.

Manning was the first man to meet them in London. He
explained that unluckily one of the men whom Beust had employed to keep watch and ward over Otto Kahn and his two companions had, at one time, been the recipient of a great favour at the hands of the secretary, and had thus been persuaded to help him to escape.

‘Extraordinary!’ exclaimed Sir Leonard. ‘This is a very small world after all. Never mind; we’ve come through all right. The only man who really has a grouse is Lenin, and I shall not be surprised if he nurses it for the rest of his life. The information we have obtained will cause a sensation.’

It did.

Sir Leonard Wallace descended from the Orient Express at Constantinople, and looked round him as though he were expecting to be met but, before he had a chance of examining the crowd properly, he found himself surrounded by a shouting, importunate horde of baggage porters. The short, stout figure of Batty, his eyes registering horror, his snub nose looking more pugilistic than usual, fought its way through the throng, showering nautical maledictions on the heads of the men who dared to press round his employer.

‘I think one porter will be sufficient, Batty,’ observed Sir Leonard, as the round, red face of his confidential servant appeared at his side. ‘We hardly want a hundred.’

‘I’ll fix the swabs, sir,’ promised the ex-naval man. ‘’Ere, you,’ he crooked his finger at a fellow, who looked somewhat less villainous than the rest, ‘come with me, and get ready to take luggage aboard. The rest o’ you up anchor. Now then, look smart about it.’

They may not have understood his language, but there was no mistaking his meaning, especially when he had knocked a few heads together. Never was a traveller arriving in the
Sublime Porte
so quickly rid of the unwelcome attentions of the railway ‘bandits’, as Sir Leonard Wallace. Batty, having satisfied himself, as he picturesquely put it, that decks were cleared, went off to find the luggage, taking the selected porter with him, and Wallace continued his scrutiny of the travellers, loungers, and people who had come to meet friends. Presently a tall, spare man, with pale face and dark eyes, threaded his way towards him, and raised his hat.

‘Hallo, Winslow,’ greeted Sir Leonard, ‘I was beginning to think that you were allowing me to arrive unheralded and unsung. How is Sir George?’

‘Desperately ill, sir,’ was the solemn reply. ‘He is not expected to live.’

Wallace stared at the attaché.

‘Not expected to live?’ he repeated. ‘I had no idea it was as bad as that.’

‘None of us had, sir, until a few hours ago. He seems to be in terrible agony now, and all the science of Dr Von Bernhardt fails to give him any relief.’

‘This is terrible. We had better drive straight to the embassy.’

‘I have a car waiting, if you’ll follow me, sir.’

Batty arrived with the luggage, and was given his instructions; then Sir Leonard, accompanied by Captain Winslow, drove to the house of the British Minister. Without delay he was shown into the sick room, where he found the famous Viennese doctor, a nurse, and Lady Paterson standing silently by the bed, anxiously watching the patient. Although the door was opened
and shut very quietly, it was heard, and the tall woman, whose husband lay dying, turned sharply, and looked questioningly at the newcomer. Recognising him she crossed the room towards him, and shook hands. Despite her fifty years Lady Paterson was still a beautiful woman, but now her face was lined and ravaged by sorrow. Wallace was shocked to note her pallor and the tragedy that showed in her eyes. Quietly and simply he expressed his sympathy.

‘Is there no hope at all?’ he asked.

She shook her head, and tears began to course down her cheeks. Stifling a sob, she sank into a chair, and covered her face with her hands. He looked at her compassionately; then turned to the doctor.

‘We met once before,’ he whispered. ‘My name is Wallace.’

‘I remember you, of course, Sir Leonard,’ acknowledged the celebrated medical man in excellent English. ‘This is a very bad business. He is sleeping now, but the end cannot be long delayed.’

‘What is he suffering from?’

Dr Von Bernhardt looked cautiously round.

‘I am not sure,’ he murmured, ‘but I suspect – powdered glass!’

‘What?’ In his astonishment and horror, Sir Leonard spoke rather louder than he had intended. ‘Do you mean that?’

The doctor nodded.

‘I am afraid there is but little doubt,’ he remarked.

‘Then he is the victim of foul play?’

‘It certainly looks very much like it.’

‘But who—?’

Von Bernhardt shrugged his shoulders.

‘It is impossible for me to make a guess at the identity of the assassin,’ he observed. ‘But the peritoneum is perforated, and I am
very nearly prepared to swear that powdered glass has caused the damage.’

‘My God!’ exclaimed Wallace. ‘How perfectly ghastly! Poor beggar, what a death to die! Have you made any investigations, doctor?’

Von Bernhardt nodded.

‘I arrived from Vienna, in response to an urgent message, yesterday morning. The doctor, who was in charge, described the symptoms, and powdered glass at once flashed into my mind. In the afternoon we together examined the food, cooking utensils, and in fact everywhere in the kitchen, but there was not one little trace of what we were looking for anywhere.’

Sir Leonard looked down at the deadly pale face of the dying Minister, and his heart was torn with pity. He had always known Sir George Paterson as a fine, healthy, robust man, who boasted of the fact that he had never had a day’s illness in his life. It was a terrible tragedy to see him lying there dying, and to be unable to raise a hand to help him.

‘Can nothing be done at all, doctor?’ he asked. ‘Would not an operation save him?’

‘Impossible now,’ replied the medical man. ‘It might have been possible, if he had been operated upon within a few hours of swallowing the glass. Unfortunately it transpires that he was in pain for three days before he uttered a complaint; then two days more went by before I was sent for. I came at once, but what can I do after a week in such a case as this? The X-ray photographs show a badly punctured peritoneum – no operation could put that right.’

‘Poor old Paterson,’ muttered Wallace to himself, and there was an unaccustomed lump in his throat.

A telegram had arrived at Secret Service headquarters from the Minister stating that he was ill, and asking the Chief of the Intelligence Department to travel to Constantinople, as he had information to give, which he could not impart to anyone of lesser authority. The request had been so unusual that Sir Leonard had left for the
Sublime Porte
at once. The idea that Sir George Paterson was dying had never entered his head, and the knowledge had come as a great shock. In his mind he was already beginning to connect the two things. It looked very much as though Sir George was being murdered to prevent the information he possessed from being handed over to his government. Possibly the murderer had expected him to die before he could communicate with Great Britain. Sir Leonard looked anxiously at the sufferer, and it seemed to him that there was a change coming over his face. Was he too late? Would Sir George pass away before he could divulge the secret?

Dr Von Bernhardt bent over and said something to the nurse. She left the room and, after some minutes, returned with the embassy doctor, who had been snatching a brief rest. The two medical men held a brief consultation; then Von Bernhardt crossed the room to the door, beckoning to Wallace as he did so. Outside he took the Englishman by the arm, and they walked along the corridor together.

‘I have asked Dr Lansbury to watch Sir George,’ he remarked, ‘while I have a chat with you. First of all I will ask you a question, which you will answer or not according to your discretion. Is there any trouble between Britain and Turkey?’

‘None at all,’ replied Sir Leonard promptly. ‘Why?’

‘Sir George sent for you obviously to impart something of importance to you. It is not unreasonable to suppose that he is
dying because of the information he possesses. This is Turkey where a man’s life is not weighed in the balance if, by living, he is likely to be dangerous. Thus my question.’

‘How did you know Sir George had sent for me?’ demanded Wallace.

Dr Von Bernhardt smiled.

‘He told me so,’ he confided. ‘In fact he has several times asked for news of you today.’

Wallace frowned. If there were anything very important behind the Ambassador’s request for his presence in Constantinople, it seemed rather injudicious to speak so openly of his expected arrival. Still one must not judge a sick man too harshly.

‘You will naturally desire to get to the bottom of this crime,’ went on the famous physician. ‘Your difficulties will be immense if, as I suspect, it has been engineered by Turkey. I brought you out here to tell you of certain suspicions, which have formulated in my mind. Before Sir George was taken ill, his wife was suffering from a bad attack of malaria fever. The doctor, who attended her, is a well-known Turk, Hamid Bey by name. The nurse was the girl who is now looking after Sir George, and it was from her that I obtained the information which roused my suspicions. She told me that Hamid Bey was continually holding whispered conversations with Lady Paterson’s Turkish maid, and that once she saw them both emerging from Sir George’s private study as though they desired to avoid being seen. This may mean nothing, of course, but I pass it on to you for what it is worth.’

‘Thanks, doctor. There may be a great deal in it. I wonder why Lady Paterson had the Turk in attendance on her. Where was Lansbury?’

‘Ah, that again is curious. Dr Lansbury had been invited to spend a holiday at the estate of Ibrahim Pasha in Brussa, which as you know is sixty miles away in Asia Minor.’

‘Strange,’ commented Wallace, ‘but, if there was a plot to entice Lansbury away and get Hamid Bey into the house, how on earth could anybody know that Lady Paterson was about to be taken ill with malaria?’

Von Bernhardt shrugged his shoulders.

‘Germs,’ he murmured pithily.

The nurse suddenly appeared at the bedroom door, and beckoned to them.

‘He is awake,’ she said, when they had hurried up to her, ‘and I’m afraid—’

The doctor pushed by, and entered the room, closely followed by Sir Leonard. The Ambassador, his eyes wide open, was breathing painfully, but nevertheless managing to smile at his wife, who sat on the other side of the bed holding his hand. An expression of relief crossed his face when he recognised Wallace.

‘Thank God you’ve come.’ He spoke in so low a voice that he could hardly be heard.

‘I’m very sorry to see you in this state, Paterson,’ murmured Sir Leonard, ‘but you’ll soon be fit again.’

The Minister smiled wanly.

‘Not in this world,’ he whispered. ‘My number’s up, Wallace, and you know it as well as I do.’

Lady Paterson failed to stifle the sob that broke from her lips and, very tenderly, he patted her hand, and uttered words of comfort to her. At his request he and Wallace were left alone, and he commenced to tell the latter why he had sent for him.

‘There is a gigantic plot brewing in—’ a spasm of intense pain shook him from head to foot, and for some moments he was unable to speak. ‘I shall – have to hurry – it seems,’ he gasped at last, and actually forced a smile.

But a further and more prolonged paroxysm gripped him, and Wallace rose to call the doctors. Somehow, though, Sir George managed to find strength enough to cling to his friend’s hand. His lips were moving painfully, and the Chief of the Secret Service bent down until his ear was close to the dying man’s lips. At first he heard nothing; then came:

‘Secret drawer – my wife’s escritoire – all information – notebook.’

Sir Leonard nodded to show that he had heard, and called back the medical attendants. The Minister soon afterwards drifted into a state of unconsciousness from which he never recovered. He died three hours later.

Lady Paterson, who had risen from her sick-bed to look after her husband before she had fully recovered from her attack of malaria, was prostrated with grief. Dr Von Bernhardt feared a complete breakdown, and ordered her absolute quiet. The result was that Sir Leonard was unable to ask her about the secret drawer in her escritoire until two days later, when, having returned from the funeral, he was given permission to see her for a few minutes. In the meantime he had not been idle. He had questioned everybody in the embassy carefully, and at length, but had been unable to elicit anything in the nature of a clue from which he could form a theory. A post-mortem examination was held, and proved that Dr Von Bernhardt had been correct. Sir George Paterson had been killed by powdered glass. The police were informed, and commenced their investigations, but
Wallace preferred to work on his own and, therefore, conducted his inquiries privately.

Mustapha Kemal Pasha called in person to express his deep sympathy and abhorrence at the nature of the tragedy. Sir Leonard was very much impressed by the personality of the Turkish President, his undoubted sincerity and strength of character. He felt that he had seldom before met a man of such honest and statesmanlike qualities, and the conversation they had together left him feeling that Turkey was indeed fortunate to possess such a man at the head of affairs.

‘This terrible crime has shaken me to the core, Sir Leonard,’ he observed, as he was taking his departure. ‘No stone will be left unturned to bring the murderer to justice. I hope and pray that he will not prove to be a Turk, but I very much fear that it will be so. It will be a great blot on the honour of my country, if he is.’

When he had gone, Sir Leonard had a talk with the nurse. It had been impossible to interview her before on account of her duties. She was a beautiful Armenian girl with dark flashing eyes, and was anxious to tell him all she knew. It was very little, however, and added nothing to what Von Bernhardt had already told him. As a result of their conversation he sent for Lady Paterson’s Turkish maid. A scrutiny of her face, when she entered the room where he was awaiting her, left him with no personal suspicions against her. She certainly had not the appearance of a girl endeavouring to hide a guilty secret. He questioned her thoroughly, attempted to trap her, but she answered him with apparent honesty, and emerged from her ordeal triumphant, leaving him a very puzzled man when, at last, he dismissed her.

A meticulous search of the kitchens and domestic quarters,
a thorough cross-examination of the cook and his mate, only succeeded in increasing his perplexity. There was not a single fact or thread to suggest a line of inquiry, the story of the nurse concerning the Turkish doctor and the maid being far too nebulous to be of any real help. There was nothing for it but to wait until he could obtain Lady Paterson’s permission to go to her escritoire and open the secret drawer. When eventually he saw her, and was told how to find the hidden receptacle and open it, he hastened to the writing-desk in her boudoir, with a sense of great relief. At last he would be able to place his hands on something definite, perhaps even discover the identity of the assassin. Following the instructions given him he had no difficulty in locating the drawer. It was rather clever of old Paterson to think of hiding the precious notebook in his wife’s escritoire. Nobody would think of searching there for it. He opened the drawer and looked in. An exclamation of baffled annoyance escaped him. It was empty!