Wallace of the Secret Service (27 page)

‘Ready, Bill?’ he muttered tensely; then: ‘Right, carry on!’

Brien flung the shutters wide apart, and Batty, a revolver in one hand, the other wrapped in a large bandana handkerchief, crashed both into the window with such force that not only was the glass splintered but most of the woodwork as well. There came a chorus of startled cries, a suppressed scream, the sharp crack of an automatic followed by a groan; then the light went out. Wallace was through the remains of the window like a flash, tearing his clothes badly in the process, but not bothering about anything so long as he got in. Almost immediately he was tackled by someone, but slipped aside, a grim smile curving his lips as he heard the faint hum of a knife passing close to his ear. He realised that another man was coming towards him, and dashed his hand, revolver and all, into where he judged the face to be. It got home beautifully, a sharp cry of pain rewarding him.

It was all very confusing, this fighting in the dark. Avoiding the first man again more by instinct than anything else, he edged to the side of the room away from the window, and there came a lull. His opponents did not know where he was and stood still in an effort to trace him by the sound of movement. He did likewise, could hear the heavy breathing of somebody close by, an occasional groan farther away, and took care not to breathe loudly himself. He wondered if the ladies still remained where they had been when he had looked through the shutters, but when the alarm had come and the light been extinguished, Phyllis had risen quickly and darted to Molly’s side. The two girls, their arms round each other, were now cowering in a remote corner of the room, hope rising in their breasts at this unlooked-for intervention, their eyes striving to pierce the pall of blackness round them.

Almost a minute must have passed before there was any further movement; then Wallace spoke.

‘You had better surrender,’ he said in French, the sound of his voice being greeted with a cry of joy from Molly. ‘The house is surrounded.’

Immediately someone fired in his direction, but, anticipating it, he had dodged aside. He dared not return the shot for fear of hitting his wife, or Phyllis, but his movement had been heard; he knew there was a man groping for him close by. Edging silently in the direction where he knew the front door must be, he suddenly felt the breath of another man on his cheek. There was a shout of exultation, but he slipped rapidly to his knees, and felt a heavy body plunge over him. At once came the horrible sound of men at death grips, and he almost laughed as he realised that two of his adversaries were doing their utmost to kill each other. It was
easy to reach the door now and, temporarily putting the revolver in the armpit of his artificial limb, he felt for the key, found it and unlocked the door. At the same time came a blood-curdling groan, accompanied by a cry of triumph.

‘There is only one,’ shouted a voice, ‘and I have killed him. Quick! Escape by the window – the women must accompany us.’

‘Stop where you are!’ commanded the level voice of Sir Leonard. ‘The first man to attempt to go through that window will get a bullet in him.’

A baffled curse answered him; then there was silence. Apparently the man who had killed his comrade by mistake was convinced now that, after all, more than one had entered by the window. Wallace pulled the door open suddenly, shouting at the same time to Batty to be careful. A figure loomed on the threshold for a moment, showing almost distinctly in the less opaque murkiness of the outer gloom; then disappeared as it went to the floor in response to Sir Leonard’s warning. Two shots rang out, but Batty had acted too quickly, and neither touched him. The two survivors of the band of crooks appeared to realise at the same moment that the game was going against them. Wallace heard them dive for the inner door, but made no effort to stop them. Brien was at the back, probably fuming at being kept out of the fight for so long. It would be a pity to do him out of his share, Sir Leonard decided.

‘Got a match, Batty?’ he asked.

‘Yes, sir.’

Almost immediately one sprang into flame, and the sailor was directed to relight the lamp. As soon as this was done, Lady Wallace was across the room and in her husband’s arms.

‘Did they hurt you very much, dear?’ he asked solicitously.

‘Then you knew?’

‘I saw through the shutters,’ he returned grimly. ‘That was why that fellow was not given a chance.’

He nodded across the room to a man lying against the chair on which she had been sitting. As she recognised him she shuddered.

‘Is he badly hurt?’ she asked.

‘I shot him through the right shoulder in a place, I hope, which will mean his being handicapped for the rest of his life. It will remind him that a woman’s arm was not made to be almost twisted from its socket. Batty, stand by that door, and keep a watch for those other fellows. They may try to fight their way back, when they find Major Brien is guarding the door and windows.’

He turned his attention to the second man. The fellow was lying on his face in a pool of blood. Advising Molly not to look, he bent down and turned him over gingerly. It was Gibaldi. He had been stabbed through the throat and was quite dead. Wallace looked up to find his wife gazing down at the body in horrified fascination.

‘How – how was he killed, Leonard?’ she asked.

‘He and one of the others fought, each thinking they had got hold of me. This is the result. Funny, isn’t it?’

‘Oh, Leonard,’ she cried with a shudder. ‘What a horrible thing to say. But – oh, I am so glad it was he and not you.’

He smiled and kissed her. Then a frown of perplexity puckered his brow. Not a sound came from the back of the house, which was very strange. If the crooks had attempted to leave either by windows or door, Brien would have been bound to see them. Could there possibly be another exit which he had overlooked? Taking care that Molly and Phyllis were in a part of the room where they were in no danger, and leaving Batty to keep guard,
he crept quietly into the other room. A faint light heralding dawn was now showing through the windows, and enabled him to see that the apartment was devoid of furniture. Of the two men there was no sign, and neither the windows nor door were open. He was beginning to feel very puzzled, when a faint scraping sound was audible above his head. At once the solution burst upon him. There was a loft above, probably with a window through which the men would squeeze, slide down the roof and escape.

He raced back through the other room and out of the front door. Running quietly round to Brien, he told him to watch the roof on one side; then went to watch the other. Almost at once there was a cry, and dashing back to his colleague he found him rolling on the ground fighting desperately with a man; another lay still close by. In the advancing light he could just distinguish friend from foe, saw an arm of the latter raised to strike, the glint of an ugly looking knife in his hand and, without hesitation, and at point blank range, fired. The knife dropped to the ground and the fellow cursed horribly, but he still went on fighting frantically with his uninjured arm, legs, and teeth. It was not long, however, before the two Englishmen had knocked all the fight out of him. They strapped his arms to his side with his own belt, and tied his legs together with a scarf he had worn round his neck.

‘Almost an anti-climax,’ commented Wallace, rising to his feet.

‘I had only just got here,’ explained Brien, ‘when that first bloke jumped from the roof. I dotted him one, and laid him out, but hadn’t time to recover myself before the other tumbled on top of me. He would have finished me too, if you hadn’t happened along.’ He picked up the knife and examined it. ‘A pretty nasty weapon,’ he observed. ‘Why, Leonard, there’s blood on it.’

‘I suppose he’s the fellow who stabbed Gibaldi,’ returned Wallace, and explained what had taken place in the cottage. ‘Let us carry these two inside.’

They lifted the pinioned man, who was groaning and swearing at the same time, and conveyed him into the hut. Brien returned with Batty for the other. The latter was regaining his senses, and was tied up in the same manner as his companion.

‘Kind of them to wear scarves and belts,’ remarked Brien. ‘One could almost imagine they anticipated our being short of the necessary materials with which to bind them. How about the groaning gentleman?’

He indicated the wounded man leaning against the chair.

‘He’s too sorry for himself,’ replied Sir Leonard, ‘to want to cause trouble. Batty, go down to the car, drive to Mentone, and fetch the police. You’ll probably find them waiting for you.’

‘I don’t speak the lingo, sir,’ objected Batty.

‘That doesn’t matter. They probably speak English of a sort.’

The ex-sailor departed, and Wallace looked down at the man who had so nearly done for Brien.

‘So, André Chalant,’ he remarked in French, ‘your activities are at an end. I have never met you before, but I’ve seen enough photographs of you to recognise you anywhere. You’ve ended your nefarious career pretty badly. The kidnapping of these ladies and the murder of Gibaldi make a nice combination.’

The fellow stopped cursing, and glared balefully at him.

‘What do you mean?’ he demanded. ‘Gibaldi is not dead.’

‘He certainly is. You fought with him in mistake for me, and stabbed him. He lies over there.’

He indicated the still form, now covered by the dilapidated tablecloth which Brien had thoughtfully spread over it. André
Chalant was visibly disconcerted and, from then on, lay sullenly silent, occasionally staring up at his captor with very nearly a glint of respect in his eyes. His wound and that of the other injured man were roughly dressed.

Lady Wallace and Mrs Brien were not disposed to talk much, having been badly shaken by their experience, but they were eager to know how they had been traced, and expressed their great admiration for Batty’s resource. Molly, who knew Monte Carlo and its environs well, told her husband that she quickly became suspicious that all was not well when in the car, but the driver went so fast that it was impossible to do anything but sit still and wait whatever fate was before them. Her arm was still painful, but Wallace assured himself that no permanent damage had been done to it. The look he turned on the man who had been twisting it caused that individual to shiver.

Before long they heard the sound of voices, and Sir Leonard went outside to meet Batty and the party of police the latter had brought with him. The
chef de la Sûreté
of Mentone himself had come with three other officers.

‘What is this I hear, M’sieur?’ he demanded, after Wallace had introduced himself. ‘A case of abduction most terrible I was informed, but of details there were none.’

Wallace quickly related the whole story, making no mention of the reason why the ladies had been kidnapped.

‘You will have a great haul, Monsieur,’ he concluded. ‘I think that apart from the abduction charge, you will probably find other crimes have been committed by the three prisoners. One, indeed, is André Chalant, who is wanted badly by the police of many countries.’

The little keen-eyed official gave a gasp of incredulous surprise.

‘What is that you say, M’sieur? André Chalant here? You are sure?’

‘Certain.’

Talking excitedly, the four officers of police hurried into the cottage. They made no secret of their exultation, when they found that the well-known criminal was in truth among those present. The
chef de la Sûreté
shook Wallace by the hand with great enthusiasm.

‘It is marvellous this,’ he cried. ‘The gratitude of France is due to you, M’sieur, and to these other gentlemen. These others are also wanted men. That one,’ he pointed to the shrouded form of Gibaldi, ‘I do not know, but what matters it? He is dead.’

Ten minutes later, leaving the police with their prisoners and the body of the renegade Italian, Wallace and his party left for Monte Carlo. It was now quite light, and the early morning air was delightfully refreshing. Brien sat in front with Batty, and they had barely traversed a mile when, with a sudden exclamation, he turned and regarded the Chief of the British Secret Service.

‘Do you know, Leonard,’ he declared, ‘what with the disappearance of Molly and Phyllis, and one thing and another, I had quite forgotten the documents that caused all the trouble until this moment. What have you done with them?’

Wallace laughed.

‘That’s the joke of the whole business,’ he chuckled. ‘All this bother has really been about nothing, because the package containing those delightfully incriminating letters left for Paris in the
rapide
at ten-fifteen last night.’

‘What?’ cried Brien. ‘You old blighter, how on earth did you manage it?’

‘I think I told you Monsieur Clement of the Department of the
Interior was staying at the Hermitage?’ Brien nodded. ‘Well,’ went on Sir Leonard, still smiling, ‘when I left you people after dinner I went to him, gave him the letters, and told him how they had come into my possession. I also gave him my opinion of politicians who put in black and white such dangerous statements. In return he told me that a severe inquiry concerning them was to have been held, and that they must have been stolen from the Quai d’Orsay, where they were kept pending the investigation. He was so agitated that he left for Paris with them by the first available train.’

‘You men are talking in riddles,’ murmured Phyllis sleepily.

‘Billy’s made history,’ replied Wallace. ‘Behold the man who prevented a war!’

The Statutory Commission appointed by the British Government to inquire into the working of the Indian Constitution wended its futile way through India, meeting at every turn opposition and obstruction, hindrance and hostility. Its members did their utmost to carry out their duties conscientiously, but their efforts, as history has since proved, were wasted. The Report, when published, was more or less still-born; it was condemned by almost every party in India. The gentlemen forming the Commission went from province to province, town to town, village to village, examining local conditions, making voluminous notes, listening carefully to the evidence, studying the mass of reports placed before them. The Congress boycotted them; they were told to go back to England by extremist volunteers the moderates only cooperated reluctantly, and after a great deal of hesitation. Despite all this they completed their task, and returned home full of information regarding India, which Indians had kindly manufactured for their benefit, but with remarkably little
knowledge of the true state of affairs existent in that country.

Following them in their progress through India was a slim man of medium height. The somewhat lazy expression on his attractive, good-humoured face was belied by the keen grey eyes and indomitable jaw. With him was a lady, obviously his wife, a most beautiful woman, and a young man who acted as his secretary. The latter, tall and well knit, possessed excellent features and had the frame of an athlete. It was his first visit to India, and he was enjoying the experience immensely. To the ordinary observer these three would appear to be tourists, but while the Royal Commission was searching painfully for facts and figures, obtaining the latter but seldom the former, the slim man with the grey eyes was making investigations from a totally different angle. The information he thus acquired was not at all in accord with that obtained by the commissioners; it was absolutely reliable and authentic, while theirs, though they did not know it, was not.

Sir Leonard Wallace had had a good deal of experience of Indian mentality. Not only had he been stationed in India with his regiment before the Great War, but on two occasions since, as head of the Secret Service, he had carried out certain investigations. He knew the Indians well enough to realise that they would only allow the commission to see what it was to their benefit to let it see; that, as far as possible, everything of a detrimental nature to them would be hidden or glossed over. He travelled to India to find out exactly what power the extremists had in the country, and to investigate fully the very depths of political agitation. The result was that, in journeying from place to place in the wake of the Statutory Commission, he had obtained a wonderfully complete insight into the ramifications of the Congress party. His knowledge of the habits and customs of the people, and his mastery of Urdu,
enabled him to disguise himself at will, and move among them as one of themselves.

‘And this,’ he observed to his secretary, who was no other than Carter of his own department, as they sat together in the lounge of Faletti’s Hotel, Lahore, ‘is the country that thinks it is able to rule itself.’ He tapped with his finger a book lying open before him. ‘Everything entered in this book is authentic. It has been culled from my own observation. When we return to London it will be placed before the Cabinet. It should show the government, once and for all, that India is not in a fit state for any further institutional reforms. Yet its only use will be to give our politicians a deeper insight into, and greater understanding of, the real India than they have ever had before, and make them wary in their future dealings with Indian politicians.’

‘But surely, sir,’ remarked Carter, ‘that will show them the futility and danger of further reforms?’

‘Not a bit of it,’ declared Sir Leonard. ‘Even with evidence like this before them, they will find it very difficult to do other than receive Indian demands sympathetically. London is a long way from India and, to our hard-headed statesmen, India is merely a part of the Empire like South Africa, Australia and Canada. Their argument is: if those three countries are fit to rank as dominions, why not India. You and I can put masses of proofs before them showing that India is too divided, with its various races, castes, religions and languages, to make a success of self-government. We can point out the low mentality of the majority of its inhabitants, its superstitions, its corruption, the shame of untouchability. We can prove that it is fatuous ever to expect that Hindus and Muslims will agree and that, if they cannot settle their differences under British rule, they certainly never will under home rule. There are
a hundred cast-iron reasons in this book to show that it would be dangerous to go any further with constitutional reforms for many years at least, but I don’t suppose, for a moment, they will have any effect, except to make the Cabinet act with a certain degree of caution. It doesn’t matter to me – I am only out here on a job of work. If my pronouncements are ignored, or not taken proper account of, I cannot be responsible. One thing my report will do,’ he added with a smile, ‘and that is, render the report of the Statutory Commission useless. But, in any case, I don’t anticipate that it will be accepted.’

‘What do you think will eventually happen to India, sir?’ asked Carter.

‘Oh, in a few years’ time, some sort of federal government will probably be instituted, the Indian statesmen will make a mess of it, the country will get into a state of chaos and there you are. Perhaps I’m wrong – I hope I am. But unless Indian mentality takes a sudden and miraculous change for the better, I don’t see how I can be. I have not met an Indian yet who could hold a position of real responsibility without losing his head, or using his rank and influence to feather his own nest. They are all tarred with the same brush; the Muslims are perhaps a little bit more honest but not much. The Hindus see in self-government a wonderful opportunity of ruling the roost and forcing the Mohammedans under foot. All I can say is: God help the Mohammedans in an India with dominion status. Provincial autonomy might meet with a measure of success, but even that would be too full of communal and individual possibilities for our Indian friends to be able to resist the temptations arrayed before their designing eyes.’

‘It seems to me,’ said Carter rather diffidently for him, ‘that this
Congress party is going to cause a heap of trouble before very long.’

‘You’re right there, Carter,’ nodded his chief. ‘It constitutes India’s greatest danger, and before you and I return to England we must find out so much about the designs underlying its activities that whatever is attempted the course of the next few years will be nipped in the bud. The declaration by congressmen that independence is the goal of India will give rise to a lot of serious and unfortunate events, and Great Britain will be prepared for their coming. Gandhi is not worth worrying about; he is an idealist, and possibly the only honest man in his party, but the others are a lot of snakes in the grass ready to make any treacherous move that appeals to them. Their attempted boycott of the Commission has been a miserable failure, as anything they attempt will fail so long as the Indian Government is forewarned. That forewarning depends upon us.’ He looked round to make sure that no one was within hearing. ‘As soon as the Royal Commission has finished its inquiries, I will become a firebrand, and somehow or other insinuate into the inner circle of the Congress. You will be at hand wherever I go to render any assistance I may need, and act as liaison officer.’ He closed the book and, putting it under his artificial arm, rose to his feet. ‘I understand that Lady Wallace is taking me to renew acquaintances at Lorang’s in the Mall in ten minutes,’ he smiled. ‘What are your plans?’

‘I have none, sir.’

‘Then come along with us, but be careful, Carter. Lahore is full of designing mothers with marriageable daughters.’

A few weeks later, when Lady Wallace was staying in Delhi as the guest of the Vicereine, a smartly dressed Mohammedan gentleman arrived in Lahore and, engaging a tonga, was driven to the Anarkali, where he engaged a room in a small native hotel. His
arrival coincided with the visit of several Congress leaders, who intended delivering certain speeches in the Bradlaugh Hall. In his hotel he found, as he had expected, that the proprietor was a man with distinct pro-Congress sympathies, and he confided to him that he had travelled all the way from Kabul, where he was a man of substance, in order to study the Indian political problem.

‘My sympathies,’ he confessed, ‘are on the side of Congress, and I have been wondering if it would be possible to help in any way.’

The landlord was greatly impressed. He had already put his guest down as a man from the north, owing to the fact that his skin was not very dark and his eyes were grey, a phenomenon that only occurred in northerners; he had even wondered if he were an Afghan. Rather pleased at his own astuteness, and delighted at his guest’s sentiments, the proprietor of the dirty little hotel bowed low.

‘Truly,’ he remarked, ‘you have come to Lahore at the right time. Tonight there will be many and great speeches at the hall which is called Bradlaugh. Your co-operation will be welcomed by those of our party. Our Muslim brethren have shown but little enthusiasm for the Congress. Tonight a big attempt will be made to enlist the sympathies of the Muslims of Lahore. If it please you, I take you to the meeting.’

The Afghan expressed his willingness to accompany his host, and together that evening they sat in a tonga, and were driven along Circular Road, past the District Courts and the Central Training College, until they reached the building which has such an unenviable reputation for seditious meetings. A great crowd chatted and laughed as it made its way into the hall. The Afghan and his companion were fortunate to find two seats near
the front, a little way from the platform on which sat seven or eight men, all but two being Hindus. Close by were several well-known Lahore residents, including Dr Sir Mohammed Iqbal the poet, a man of enlightened mind and anti-Congress tendencies, who was probably present out of curiosity. He was invited to ascend the platform, but refused. Such an act, he knew, would have associated him with the speechmakers, and he looked as though he rather resented the invitation. One of the Muslims on the dais was a stout, smug-looking man, obviously one of the few Mohammedans who have sold their birthright for Hindu money. He was a barrister in Lahore, and was later to spend considerable periods in jail for sedition. The hotel-keeper, after fidgeting in his seat for some time rose and edged his way to the platform, where he got into conversation with this man. From the waving of arms in his direction, and the many glances, the Afghan concluded that they were discussing him. The barrister showed a great deal of interest, and presently descended from his perch. He was introduced to the Afghan, and expressed his great pleasure at seeing him there.

‘My colleagues,’ he asserted, ‘will be delighted to meet you. May I take you to them?’

Thus was Sir Leonard Wallace received into the Congress camp. The refusal of the great bulk of Muslims to associate with the Congress was a very sore blow to the Hindu leaders, and they were prepared to go to almost any lengths to obtain volunteers from among the followers of the Prophet. It is a well-known fact that they were prepared to pay substantial sums of money to prominent Muslims to join them, but only a few fell to the temptation. The advent of an Afghan, who dressed and spoke like a man of education and importance, was an event. If public opinion in Afghanistan could be swayed to the side of Congress,
there was no knowing what rosy prospects might be in store for India! At least that was what Sir Leonard’s new acquaintances thought, and they gave him a warm welcome and a seat on the platform, even mentioned him in their speeches. Afterwards he was made much of, and had a long conversation with Lala Rajpat Rai, whose death from heart failure a year or so later was made an excuse for the cruel murder of the young police officer, Saunders. Rajpat Rai invited him to take up his abode in his house during the remainder of his stay in Lahore, but he declined. He preferred the liberty which the Anarkali hotel afforded him, even though there might be certain advantages in living in intimate contact with an important member of the Congress.

Having expressed his intention of travelling throughout India and studying Congress activities at first hand, he left Lahore a few days later armed with various letters of introduction. He arrived in Allahabad when Pandits Motilal Nehru and Jawarhalal Nehru were there, and had the satisfaction of meeting them and learning from them much of their intentions for the future. He found Jawarhalal a good-looking man with rather an ascetic type of face and mind that had been definitely sovietized. Nothing gave him more pleasure than to talk of modern Russia. He spoke well, and had a convincing manner, which Sir Leonard quickly decided would be very effective in moving the half-educated and easily swayed masses. The only item of real interest which came to his knowledge in Allahabad, however, was the fact that the two Nehrus, and other leaders of the Congress, were meeting Gandhi in Ahmedabad, where secret conference was to be held a week later. He resolved to be present if possible. He made no secret of his desire meet the Mahatma, and was promptly given a letter of introduction.

He took care not to arrive at Ahmedabad until the day before
the conference was due to take place, hoping that, by that time, Congress circles would feel such confidence in him that he would be invited to the meeting itself. He went to Gandhi’s Ashram at Sabarmati feeling that his work was nearing completion; that he was on the eve of making important discoveries. He was ushered into the presence of the Mahatma by Mirabai, the English girl who had given up everything to become a disciple of the man whom India idolised. He studied her covertly, but with a great deal of interest, and was surprised to notice how contented she looked. There was something suggestive of the fanatic in her face, but in her eyes shone a light as well which is usually only seen in the eyes of those who have found a great and abiding truth. Sir Leonard was impressed.