Wallace at Bay (10 page)

‘A large John Haig, miss,’ he ordered.

She turned away to supply his requirements.

‘Don’t attempt to hand me anything,’ came in an almost inaudible whisper from Hill. ‘I’ve a notion you’re being watched. I saw a bloke wandering about the platform in your wake before you came in. He entered after you. Look in the mirror – first table – right-hand side of the door. Know him?’

A large mirror advertising Worthington hung almost directly in front of Carter. He raised his eyes casually, glanced at the table indicated. He had great difficulty in suppressing a start, as he recognised the man seated there. It was Julius Carberry. He was so surprised that he remained staring at the reflection of the fellow for several seconds. Luckily Carberry was not looking in his direction. The last man Carter would have suspected of being interested in his movements, it nevertheless appeared evident that he had been trailing him. Yet the Secret Service man had been extremely cautious; had felt certain when he entered the buffet that he had not been followed. This was certainly a big surprise, and most disconcerting. Where did Carberry enter into the scheme of things? It did not seem possible that he could have anything to do with Modjeska and Grote, yet what other reason could he have for following Carter? Of course he may not have been trailing him after all; there was nothing very unusual in his being there, but Hill seemed to think the effeminate-looking man had been following him. Hill would hardly make a mistake.

‘Are you sleepy, or in love?’ asked a feminine voice.

Carter found the barmaid regarding him with amusement. Placed in front of him was his whisky.

‘Sorry,’ he apologised, and fumbled for some money.

He had observed that Carberry was looking directly into the glass at his face, and had promptly resumed the expression which
he kept for the guests of the Canute Hotel. The girl went away to get his change.

‘The fellow is staying at the same hotel as I,’ he whispered to Hill, his lips hardly moving. ‘I don’t think he has anything to do with our affair.’

‘Well, he’s watching you. I’m sure of it. Repeat the dose, dearest,’ he said aloud as the barmaid came back, and pushed his glass towards her.

She tossed her head.

‘I like your dearest,’ she commented with pretended disdain.

‘Do you, dearest? Then I’ll repeat it, dearest.’ She went off to replenish his glass. ‘That’s got rid of her for a moment,’ whispered Hill. ‘Stick your report inside my paper when that dago isn’t looking this way – I’ll gather it up. And watch him, Tommy; I don’t like his looks.’

He negligently spread his evening paper on the counter, part of it touching Carter’s arm. Almost at the same moment Carberry looked away, and the pseudo-Bolshevik performed a sleight-of-hand trick. Hill bent over the counter reading the news. When the girl returned with his drink he folded up the paper again, and placed it in the inner pocket of his coat. Wrapped up in it was Carter’s report to his chief. The more he thought about the new situation that had arisen, the more puzzled Carter became. Who was Julius Carberry? Was his name an alias and his supposed profession of commercial traveller a blind? There was certainly a good deal of the foreigner about him. If he had in reality been trailing the Secret Service man that night, he had been remarkably clever about it; yet there he was, sitting quite openly at a table in the buffet, drinking the sickly-looking kind of mixture one would expect a fellow
of his type to delight in. Probably he felt that Carter would not suspect him of being in any way interested in him, and consequently would think nothing of his appearance there. He was not to know that Hill had been watching for his colleague’s arrival and had had his attention drawn to Carberry.

Carter toyed with the thought of challenging the effeminate-looking man, demanding to know why the latter was trailing him, but that would be manifestly absurd, at least until he had assured himself, beyond all doubt, that he was, in fact, being followed by Carberry. Suddenly he remembered that he had noticed in one of his communist papers the announcement of a meeting arranged for that evening in a hall at Lambeth. It was timed to commence at nine o’clock. Carter decided to go there; he would be late, but that would not matter. He wished to make certain of Carberry’s interest in him. If the latter followed him, it might also tend to convince the man that he was actually what he seemed to be.

He finished his drink, bade the barmaid goodnight, and walked out of the buffet. He took not the slightest notice of Carberry, and left the station, walking down the slope to Westminster Bridge Road without once glancing round. Thereafter he strode rapidly to the hall where the meeting was being held. The place was crowded, but he managed to find a seat at the back. There he remained for an hour. Speaker followed speaker, each giving expression to the most virulent communistic utterances. Carter felt nauseated; longed to stand up and denounce them, but he clapped and cheered as loudly as anyone. He had not taken long to satisfy himself that Carberry had indeed followed him. The fellow had entered the hall, and was endeavouring to efface himself between two vicious-looking,
pale-faced youths sitting near the end of the same row as the seat occupied by Carter. At half past ten the Secret Service agent decided that it was time he returned to the Canute Hotel. He also decided that he and Carberry would return together. He squeezed his way out of the building, noting from the corner of his eye that Julius had risen from his seat. Outside he positioned himself in such a manner that the man trailing him would not notice him until he was actually on him, and proceeded to light a cigarette. Suddenly someone cannoned into him with a good deal of force, the impact causing them both to stagger. It was Carberry, and he seemed in a great hurry.

‘Why don’t you look where you’re going?’ growled Carter. ‘Hullo!’ he added in tones of profound surprise. ‘Fancy meeting you here. I didn’t know you were one of us.’

In the rays of light cast by the lamp hanging over the hall door Carberry looked a distinctly sick individual at that moment. He licked his lips, while a finger tugged at his collar as though it were choking him.

‘I – I – It isn’t generally known,’ he stuttered in a high-pitched voice.

‘Why not?’ demanded Carter. ‘You’re not ashamed of it are you?’

‘No, no of course not, but – but my job. You see – I might lose it.’

‘Bah!’ grunted Carter. ‘Why should you care? I lost my job because I told the boss exactly what my sentiments are. To hell with all capitalists who squeeze the lifeblood out of the people. Are you returning to the Canute?’

‘Er – yes.’

‘Then come along! We’ll walk together.’

Carberry was obviously very reluctant, but he could not very well refuse. On the way Carter at first spoke enthusiastically of
the ‘cause’, the coming downfall of monarchies and capitalism, with the fiery ardour of the fanatic, and as though glad of the opportunity of discoursing to a kindred spirit. Julius confined himself to monosyllabic replies. Before they had gone far, however, the Secret Service man gradually introduced a personal note into his remarks, proceeding very adroitly to pump his companion, but, despite the manner in which he wrapped up his questions, he learnt practically nothing. Carberry was obviously very much on his guard. His affected voice when he did speak, his effeminate mannerisms, sickened Carter. Long before they reached the Canute Hotel, Carter had given up attempting to get him to talk. In consequence he was left in a puzzled frame of mind. Of one thing he felt almost certain. It was that neither Modjeska nor Grote were likely to have employed Carberry. He was too inept, too invertebrate to give anyone confidence or encourage trust. In addition, he was not a Bolshevik or communist. The one thing Carter had succeeded in discovering about him was that his ideas on the doctrines which had emanated from Russia were so vague as to be negligible.

They parted at the hotel door, Carberry going on ahead up to his room with a muttered goodnight. Carter soon followed up to his, and undressed very thoughtfully. He had hardly climbed into bed when Modjeska silently entered the room, a smile on his flabby, sallow face. He had reached the bed, and was about to take a seat on it, when the door slowly opened again. Both the Pole and Carter gazed at it with startled eyes, each catching his breath in a gasp of apprehension. A man entered; stood looking at them. It was Julius Carberry.

A dead silence, lasting for quite half a minute, followed the entry into the room of the unexpected visitant. There was a sneering smile on the latter’s face, while both Modjeska and Carter stared at him in dumbfounded astonishment. The Pole’s expression was perfectly ludicrous. His strange, brown eyes were open to their widest extent, losing thereby a lot of their sinister quality, his lower jaw had fallen as though completely beyond control. Carter was the first to recover himself.

‘What do you want?’ he asked.

‘I want to speak to you – and him,’ replied Carberry in his affected tones.

‘This is hardly the time or the place I should imagine for your purpose.’

‘It is the right place and the right time, for my purpose is private and concerns you both.’

‘Vell, shut the door,’ hissed Modjeska recovering his faculties suddenly. ‘Ve do not vant all the people in the hotel to know ve meet here.’ Carberry obeyed, and advanced farther into the room. Carter noticed that the Pole quickly placed himself in such a position that he was now between the intruder and the door. ‘Explain, please,’ continued Modjeska, ‘vhy you come here in manner so secret.’

Carberry’s dark eyes were turned first on one, then on the other.

‘Exactly how much,’ he asked, ‘are you prepared to pay to make it worth my while to keep my mouth closed?’

Although the question caused Carter as much surprise as it apparently did Modjeska, he was sensible of a feeling of relief. Carberry did not, after all, represent an unknown and possibly dangerous party, neither was he a spy employed by Modjeska. Apparently he had discovered something concerning the activities of the latter and, associating Carter with him, had decided upon a little blackmail. It was the kind of thing that would appeal to a fellow of his type, thought the Secret Service man contemptuously, but he could not know the danger in which he was placing himself. Modjeska and company would think as little of removing anyone from the world who threatened to become inconvenient as they would a speck of dust from their attire.

Modjeska at first was frankly startled. Carter noticed, however, that he showed neither perturbation nor embarrassment and, when the initial sense of shock wore off, even smiled. But it was a wicked smile. The mouth was twisted pitilessly, the eyes, from behind their pince-nez, gleamed with utter cruelty. Perhaps for the first time, Carter realised the brutality underlying the suave manner of Ivan Modjeska. Carberry undoubtedly became, at that moment, aware of the
peril in which he had placed himself. His pale face turned bloodless, fear looked naked from his eyes. However, with a visible effort, he pulled himself together, fondly imagining perhaps that he held the trump cards.

‘It seems to me, Mr Carberry,’ observed Modjeska in tones that can only be described as a purr, ‘that you are, for some reason vich ve do not know, trying to – vat is it you say in English?’ he appealed to Carter.

‘Blackmail us?’

‘Ah! Yes, blackmail us. My friend, Mr Carter, vill not, I think, mind mooch if you sit in that chair and explain to us.’

He indicated a chair on the opposite side of the bed. Carter nodded, and Julius Carberry, after a slight show of hesitation, walked round and sat down.

‘I know who you are, Ivan Modjeska,’ he declared in his sickeningly effeminate voice, ‘and I heard enough of your conversation with Mr Carter last night to assure me that you and he were about to join forces.’

Modjeska and Carter exchanged a quick and somewhat apprehensive glance.

‘Our conversation?’ repeated the former. ‘My friend, I think you dream. Of vat conversation do you speak?’

‘It is no use trying bluff,’ declared Carberry. ‘I refer to your conversation in this room after eleven. I saw you pass along the corridor. I was already very much interested in you, but your secretive manner increased my interest. You see my bedroom is number thirteen, which happens to be at the top of the stairs on the other side of the passage. I looked cautiously out and observed that you entered here. I knew this was Mr Carter’s room, and he is well-known to possess doctrines which I privately knew to be
similar to yours. I waited till all was quiet; then I crept along the corridor and listened with my ear to the keyhole. You little thought your very interesting talk was being overheard, did you?’

Modjeska’s eyes became more wicked-looking than before.

‘Ah! The eavesdropper!’ he murmured, and shook his head with the air of an elder gently reproving a youngster for a minor transgression. ‘It is very mooch bad form – that. Perhaps tonight comes another eavesdropper. Who knows?’ He crossed quickly to the door, and, opening it softly, inspected the corridor. Presently he closed it again, and Carter did not fail to notice that this time he bolted it. ‘I think it vill be vell if you start at the beginning,’ he went on to the white-faced Carberry, ‘and explain vhy you have the so-great interest in me.’

‘I’ll tell you all,’ agreed Julius, ‘and then you’ll see that I have you – like this.’ He closed his hands slowly, as though getting a tight grip on something.

‘This is most entertaining, do you not think so?’ Modjeska asked Carter.

‘Very,’ replied the Secret Service man dryly.

‘You’ll understand quite a lot,’ continued Carberry, ‘when I tell you that Luigi Casaroli, who died in Shirland Road, was my mother’s brother!’

A little hiss escaped from between Modjeska’s thin lips. Carter now understood the touch of the foreigner in Carberry.

‘So you’re half Italian,’ he commented.

‘I am,’ acknowledged Julius, ‘and I’m proud of it. My Italian blood gives me the artistic side of my nature which my employers appreciate so much.’

‘Get on with your story,’ urged the disgusted Carter.

‘Luigi Casaroli,’ proceeded Carberry, now with a little more
confidence than he had hitherto shown, ‘got into some unsavoury communistic trouble in Berlin, where he held a very good post. He fled to England to escape punishment, and my father, who used to be an important official of the Bootblack Brigade, persuaded him to become naturalised. He did, and my father found him a job. He and I became very friendly, and he grew very fond of me.’ Julius drew his hand backwards over his sleek hair and lowered his eyes modestly, his lips pursed. Carter longed to punch his head. ‘A short while before he died,’ pursued Carberry, ‘I called on him, and found him in a state of great terror. He confessed everything to me.’

‘Vat do you mean by everything?’ queried Modjeska.

‘He told me that members of an anarchist society had followed him to England, and had forced him to act as their agent in this country on threat of divulging what had occurred in Berlin. He said that the object of the society was to assassinate royalty in every country that possessed a king. He had received news that King Peter, who had accepted an invitation to visit England, was to be murdered on arrival here. He had been instructed to arrange accommodation for the three anarchists who had been selected for the deed. There were some rooms vacant in the house in which he lived. He proposed to arrange for the three men to have those, but he was in deadly terror. He believed, he told me, that his own death would result from the venture. I asked him why he did not tell the police. He replied that he dared not, because if he did the affair in Berlin would come to light. It was the shooting of a police official, who had been investigating the activities of a secret society to which he belonged, and which was connected in some way with the anarchists. He made me swear not to betray him, but to do my best to think of means by which he could escape from the
toils. I promised to do so. It was because he knew of the Canute Hotel through my staying there that he gave the name to you, Ivan Modjeska. He told me about you and Vladimir Dimitrinhov, and asked me to watch you when you came to London.

‘I was away on my travels in the country when news of the raid on the house in Shirland Road reached me, and the death of my uncle and the three anarchists. None of the papers described exactly how the men were killed, though it was hinted in several that one of the anarchists had gone mad and shot down his associates before falling himself. I went to visit the ice cream man who lives in the basement when I returned to London. He had overheard the police speaking, and was able to tell me that my uncle, Luigi Casaroli, had threatened to betray the society to the English authorities, whereupon a man called Haeckel had snatched up a revolver, even though his wrists were handcuffed, and had shot him. Afterwards he killed the other two and himself. Now you know what I know, Ivan Modjeska, and you’re going to pay me well not to speak.’

The Pole sat on the bed studying him through narrowed eyes. Suddenly he turned to Carter.

‘You of course knew of that so-tragic Sheerland Road affair – no?’

‘Yes,’ admitted Carter, ‘but I had no idea that––’

‘That it was any of my concerns? But now you know, you also know vhy I vant go there. The friend I talk of to you vas the ice cream man. He tell me also the same he has told Mr Carberry. My society vas mooch anxious about vat the police know. I am happy that it is very leetle.’ Abruptly he looked back at Julius, and his voice dropped to a purr again. ‘But tonight,’ he pronounced, ‘I have find out something very mooch important I think. Ve all vonder how it is the police know to raid the house in Sheerland
Road. I have now the answer. Mr Carberry vas the man who told them.’

‘That’s a lie!’ gasped Julius starting up from his chair. ‘I did not go to the police at all.’

‘You did not go – no; perhaps not. But you could write – yes?’

‘I didn’t write either. I kept my promise to my uncle. Even then I thought that it would mean more profit to myself to keep quiet.’

‘It is not possible to believe that you did not tell them,’ insisted Modjeska. ‘Vat other person could do it? Nobody, my friend. Am I not right, Mr Carter?’

‘It looks like it,’ agreed Carter, though he knew the true facts. He turned a baleful look on Carberry, as Modjeska nodded approval. ‘You fool,’ growled the Secret Service man to Julius, who was again looking white-faced and shaken, ‘what did you expect to gain by mixing yourself up in an affair like this?’

‘I expect to gain quite a lot,’ was the reply, though not too confidently spoken.

‘Have you heard the English saying,’ queried Modjeska softly, ‘I like it very mooch – “Dead men tell not the tales”?’

Carberry laughed a trifle unsteadily.

‘You – you can’t frighten me like that,’ he returned, though his looks belied his words. ‘I have left a document with – with someone, which will be handed to the police if I – if anything happens to me.’

‘All that sounds very terrible,’ smiled Modjeska, ‘but vat do I care for your blackmail, my friend? – nothing, nothing at all. If your so-wonderful document went to the police, they could not act on it. They would find Ivan Modjeska and Vladimir Dimitrinhov most innocent men, vith not one leetle bit of proof to catch them.’

‘Bluff – all – all – bluff,’ stammered Carberry. ‘Whether there is
proof to be found against you or – or not, my death would be – be significant, wouldn’t it? And don’t forget: the name of the society is in the document.’

For the first time Modjeska looked really perturbed.

‘Perhaps also in that document,’ he murmured, looking intently at Carberry, ‘is the address of the place vere the headquarters of the society are?’

The other nodded triumphantly.

‘I have not only given the address of the headquarters,’ he replied, ‘but also the address of the hiding place in Constantinople.’

The Pole removed his pince-nez, and polished them in his handkerchief, with hands that trembled a little. Now that the glasses were removed Carter, for the first time, obtained a real view of the man’s uncanny eyes. Their vivid, hypnotic quality was revealed in all its naked iniquity. The Secret Service man became almost fascinated by them. He did not wonder at the gasp which escaped from Julius Carberry. Glancing at the latter, he saw him staring with fearful intensity at Modjeska, his hands clenched, his teeth biting deep into his lower lip. Carter decided that the Pole had removed his pince-nez for the very purpose of terrifying the blackmailer. He sat slowly rubbing the glasses, his eyes fixed unblinkingly on the other.

‘Vere is it – this document?’ he asked presently in a low vibrating voice.

‘I won’t tell you,’ came the faltering reply.

‘Oh, yes, you vill, my friend. Ivan Modjeska vills it that you tell him. Listen to me, very carefully. I say again you vill tell me vere the document is.’

‘No – no! I won’t!’

‘You vill.’ And the eyes continued gazing deep into those of the victim.

Carter realised, with a sense of horror, that the Pole was attempting to mesmerise Carberry. A vivid recollection of an occasion when an attempt of a similar nature had been made on him recurred to his mind. Somehow, even if it meant drawing the Pole’s suspicion on himself, he must put a stop to the foul work. He knew very well that once Julius was forced to reveal the information which Modjeska was attempting to tear from him, his life would be forfeit.

‘I won’t tell you – I won’t!’ came now in great gasps from Carberry.

‘You vill. Nothing can vithstand the vill of Ivan Modjeska. Speak! Vere is the document?’

The tortured man tried vainly to tear his gaze away from those terrible eyes, but could not. He was easy prey to such a man as Modjeska. Before long his resistance was palpably weakening. He began to sob his refusal; then whine in a manner that was so animal-like as to shock Carter.

The latter could stand it no longer.

‘He is obstinate, isn’t he?’ he observed in matter-of-fact tones. ‘Never mind, Mr Modjeska, we will—’

The Pole turned on him like a wild beast.

‘You fool!’ he snarled. ‘You have spoilt it all vat I vas doing. Have you not the sense?’

A string of words in his own language sounding very much like profanity, burst in a torrent from his lips, but the tension was broken. Carberry was bending forward, his face hidden in his hands, his whole body trembling violently. Carter eyed Modjeska with well-simulated amazement.