Wallace at Bay (13 page)

‘Lord!’ he remarked aloud, when nearing the Canute, ‘It’s the fruitiest joke of the year.’

At the hotel the young man wrote the necessary statement for Scotland Yard regarding his conviction that Julius Carberry had met his death by foul play, giving his reasons for that assumption, and laying particular stress on Ivan Modjeska’s previous attempt to hypnotise the man. He also emphasised the fact that less than ten minutes had passed from the time Carberry had left
his room until Modjeska had gone to him, and that the Pole was in the blackmailer’s apartment for over two hours after that. The declaration finished, he signed it, placed it in an envelope, which he sealed and addressed to Major Brien. The latter would despatch it, with a confidential covering note, to the Commissioner of Police. The latter would take no criminal action until the Secret Service notified him that such would no longer interfere with the investigations of Sir Leonard Wallace and his agents. Carter undressed, put the document away in the pocket of his pyjama jacket, assured himself that the door of the room was locked and bolted, and went to bed. His long walk had not greatly fatigued him; he felt pleasantly tired, as well as delighted at having had the opportunity of scoring off Modjeska, and quickly fell into a dreamless sleep, which lasted until he was called in the morning.

He was in ample time for the boat train at Victoria. As he walked along the platform, clad in his new though somewhat ill-fitting suit, aggressive green felt hat, carrying his overcoat on one arm and battered suitcase in the other hand, he was keenly on the watch for Modjeska and Grote. He saw no signs of them, however, though he expected them to be on the train. Modjeska would be unable to meet him in Vienna otherwise, unless he went by air. On reflection Carter thought that that was probably what the Pole and Grote would do. There was a possibility, of course, and the idea caused the Englishman a good deal of quiet amusement, that Modjeska would not be in a fit condition to travel. In that case, he presumed, Grote would doubtless meet him on his arrival.

He selected a compartment in the first coach and, having deposited his bag in the rack and overcoat on a seat, descended
to the platform. Presently a small man with a boyish figure came wandering along selling Sunday papers. He went from compartment to compartment, and appeared to be doing a great trade, for the train was packed. Something about him struck Carter as familiar; then, as he drew nearer, the former knew. It was his colleague, Cousins, one of the most brilliant of Sir Leonard’s senior assistants. He played the part of news vendor as though born to it, as in fact, he enacted all the numerous roles he was from time to time called upon to assume. Cousins was an extraordinary fellow in more ways than one. A perfect mine of reliable information, some of it concerning the most abstruse subjects, he rarely found it necessary to consult a book of reference. He was a linguist par excellence. No one knew exactly how many languages he could speak, though Hugh Shannon had computed the number at fifteen. Major Brien on one occasion asked him. Cousins had scratched his head and looked puzzled. ‘I can’t speak Japanese or Chinese,’ had been his reply. In addition he possessed a fluent knowledge of innumerable dialects. He was almost as good a shot with a revolver as Sir Leonard Wallace, could lasso like a cowboy, throw a knife better than most experts, and swim like a fish. There was hardly a spot on the globe with which he was not familiar, and his understanding of the mentality of people of foreign races, even that very intricate organism, the oriental mind, was something to wonder at. He had been a member of the Secret Service as long as Sir Leonard Wallace, graduating from Military Intelligence at about the same time. Cousins’ passion was literature – both poetry and prose. He was always ready with a quotation on every conceivable occasion; never seemed at a loss. His age was difficult to calculate. He might have been thirty-five or he might have been sixty. His amazingly wrinkled face gave him the appearance of age, but he possessed
the figure of a boy of fourteen and was no taller. His height, as a matter of fact, was exactly five feet. His eyes were a deep brown and exceedingly bright; his mouth seemed to have been fashioned for laughter, it was all humorous curves. When he smiled, which was frequently, his face became a mass of extraordinary little creases, each of which appeared to possess its own private little grin.

Gradually he drew nearer to Carter, and the latter studied him with admiration as well as amusement. The manner in which he expertly produced a newspaper called for, and counted out change; his voice, as he invoked custom, suggested that he had been employed in that manner for years. But in some subtle way he had become a different Cousins. His wrinkles had, by clever make-up, been almost eliminated. His mouth drooped; looked anything but humorous. It is certain that only those who knew him well would recognise him. Carter was assured that people on the train who might see him as himself afterwards would never know him for the same person as the small, youngish-looking man from whom they had bought papers. At last he was abreast of Carter.

‘Paper, sir?’ he called. ‘
Observer
,
Times
,
Chronicle
,
Dispatch
,
News of the World
,
People
.’

‘
News of the World
, please,’ decided the other.

Cousins slipped it from his bag with celerity.

‘Here you are, sir.’ He accepted a shilling and, as he counted out the change, added rapidly in a low voice. ‘G and M are on the train in compartment at the rear with blinds down. Sir Leonard and Miles are close to them. I’m flying to Vienna – shall be somewhere about when you arrive. Have you the statement for Scotland Yard?’

‘Posted it to Major Brien on my way here. How’s Modjeska?’

‘Looks a wreck. You put it across him all right. Sir L not too delighted – thinks you may have incurred M’s enmity and thereby
lose his support. Unreasonable of him, of course, but a man who has been walked almost to death is hardly likely to be reasonable. There you are, sir.’

Cousins passed on. Carter entered his compartment, threw his overcoat on to the rack, and sat down. He felt a trifle perturbed. It had not occurred to him that by making Modjeska follow him over half of London, he may have undone some of the good work he had accomplished. He realised it now, however. Although the Pole would think that Carter had not known he was being followed, his ire would undoubtedly be roused against a man who had caused him so much suffering. When he was fully recovered, he might no longer feel any resentment, but, on the other hand, it was possible he would allow it to linger and turn him against Carter. The latter began to regret his jest – it did not appear in such a humorous light now. Above all, he was chagrined at the fact that, having won the approbation of Sir Leonard Wallace, he had spoilt it by meriting his displeasure.

‘Hang you for a fool, Tommy,’ he muttered to himself. ‘When are you going to learn to be a little less impetuous?’

The train started; was presently tearing on its way through the countryside of Kent – beautiful even at that time of the year – on its non-stop run to Dover. Carter attempted to read his paper, but reflection of the harm his thoughtless desire to score off Modjeska might have done continually obtruded. Before long he gave up attempting to peruse the news; concentrated on finding a way back to Modjeska’s esteem, if indeed he had lost it. The laughter and chatter of the other people in the compartment – obviously a family party – were too distracting for deep thought, however, and he was unable to evolve any scheme of promise. His mind, by a natural process of thought, turned to wondering that Grote
and Modjeska should have elected to travel by the same train as he. Having informed him that they were crossing to the continent on the previous day, what explanation would they make of their apparent change of plan, for they could hardly expect to escape his observation? Embarking on the boat at Dover, for instance, it would be well nigh impossible. He received his answer shortly after the train had thundered through Maidstone. The door communicating with the corridor was drawn back. Carter looked up, immediately experiencing a thrill of astonishment, which he made no attempt to hide. Standing there, looking down at him with a smile on his coarse features, was Hermann Grote.

‘How do you do?’ he greeted the Englishman. ‘My friend and I are on the train. We shall be glad if you will join us.’

Without a word, Carter rose and followed him.

It was a long and not very easy walk along the narrow corridor of the careering, swaying train to the carriage where Modjeska awaited them. Carter glanced into every compartment he passed, but recognised neither Sir Leonard Wallace nor Oscar Miles. They must have disguised themselves exceedingly well, he thought, since he saw no one who even seemed to resemble either. At length, almost at the extreme end of the train, Grote stopped before the door of a first-class smoker the inside of which was hidden from view by drawn blinds. He slid open the door and bade the Englishman enter. Modjeska was lying at full length along one seat, the arms of which had been raised to give him room. He looked worn and more sallow than usual. There was nobody else in the compartment. Carter stood looking down at him for a moment, and was relieved to find that he apparently bore him no ill-will. He even smiled.

‘Ah, my friend,’ he remarked, ‘you are surprised to see us vith you on this train – yes?’

‘I am – very,’ returned Carter. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘Vell, you soon vill. Sit down, and Mr Grote vill talk. I am too fatigue.’

‘Are you ill?’ questioned the Englishman, as he sank into a corner seat opposite the Pole.

‘I am so veary that I am ill. All my bones hurt me mooch – it is you who do it to me.’

‘I! How?’

Carter had no need to pretend surprise – he was astonished at this candour. They were apparently intending to be frank with him. Grote assured himself that the door leading to the corridor was firmly closed; then sat by the Englishman’s side.

‘In an affair of this nature,’ he observed, ‘it is necessary to make certain that those we employ, or intend to employ, are beyond suspicion. Mr Modjeska and I were convinced, up to a point, that you were quite reliable, and the very man for the post we intend to recommend shall be offered to you. But we desired to be assured beyond shadow of doubt. You were, therefore, told that we were leaving England last night. Instead of that we went to Waterloo Station and, from there, took a taxicab to a hotel near Victoria. Ivan Modjeska then returned and watched the Canute Hotel. When you emerged he followed you, observing all your movements. Unfortunately for him, you seem to be a young man with an unlimited capacity for walking. He does not walk farther than he can help. You will gather that your long promenade knocked him out. He returned to our hotel last night more dead than alive.’

A mixture of astonishment and resentment was in Carter’s face as he glared from one to the other.

‘Do you mean to say,’ he demanded of Modjeska, ‘that you followed me when I went for that stroll last evening?’

‘Stroll he call it!’ groaned Modjeska. ‘I always tink stroll is the English vord meaning little valk.’

‘So it is.’

‘And you say you vent for a little valk! I am mooch tankful you did not go for a big vone.’

‘So you were following me all the time,’ grunted Carter. ‘You don’t think I’ll put up with that kind of thing, do you?’

‘But surely you understand,’ persisted Grote, ‘that we were compelled, for the sake of the society, to take precautions? We are now perfectly sure of you.’

‘Oh, are you? How am I to know that when we reach Vienna the same thing won’t happen again?’

‘Because, I tell you, we are now quite certain of you.’

The remark sounded a trifle significant, but Carter made no comment. It probably meant, he reflected, that if the other members of the committee of ten were not quite satisfied of his bona fides no risks would be taken with him. He would either return to England with the full confidence of all or never return at all.

‘Oh, well,’ he declared, ‘I suppose you had your reasons, but I don’t like being distrusted. After all, I didn’t ask you to make me a member of the society, did I?’

‘No, you did not. If you had, we should have had our suspicions aroused at once, for how could you know there was a society or that Ivan Modjeska belonged to it?’

‘I mean, I didn’t ask when he told me about the society. It was his idea.’

‘Exactly, my friend,’ nodded Modjeska, ‘it vas my idea, and
why? Because I know you vill be of great use. If I did not tink you were to be trust, I vould not have told you anything. The vatching vas only a safeguard. Helas! I now regret mooch I make the so unnecessary observation of you.’

He rubbed his legs tenderly.

‘I’m sorry,’ apologised Carter, ‘but it is your own fault for following me.’

‘I admit it. I am mooch punished.’

‘You can’t be used to walking.’

‘I am not. I hate it.’

Carter remained talking to them until the train was approaching Dover. He was gratified and vastly relieved to find that Modjeska bore him no ill-will. Sir Leonard’s fears had fortunately not been realised, nevertheless Carter mentally resolved to weigh up all possibilities before taking action in the future. He boarded the cross-channel steamer alone. Being one of the first to reach her decks, he watched the other passengers come aboard. Modjeska walked painfully, leaning on his companion’s sympathetic arm, and followed by a porter loaded with their baggage. They sought the warmth and comfort of the saloon. Carter again failed to recognise Sir Leonard Wallace or Miles in the throng, and after the boat had left Dover and was ploughing her way through the heavy sea running in the Straits, he sought shelter on a seat protected from the chilly wind. He had it to himself, most of the other passengers having elected to go below.

Presently a stout, bearded Frenchman, with bushy eyebrows and a large nose glowing red with the cold, appeared and sat by his side. He was muffled in a greatcoat, and wore a dark blue beret.

‘Oh, la, la!’ he exclaimed. ‘It is a ver’ bad time – this – to cross ze shannel. I do not lofe him. The feeling of mal-de-mer afflict my stomach. You also suffer, m’sieur?’

‘No,’ replied Carter. ‘I am fortunate that way. It’s a pretty beastly crossing though.’

‘I’ve known worse,’ came surprisingly in the well-known voice of Sir Leonard Wallace.

‘Good Lord!’ gasped Carter; turned to stare at his companion, who was holding out his left arm towards him, and withdrawing the glove which covered the hand. One glance was enough to satisfy Carter that it was artificial. ‘It’s a marvellous disguise, sir.’

‘Merely temporary,’ returned Sir Leonard. ‘This stout Frenchman will leave you at Brussels. We are quite alone here, and Miles is keeping an eye on our friends. I saw you pass along the corridor with Grote, Carter. Has your little escapade of last night had any unfortunate results?’

‘No, sir,’ his assistant assured him eagerly. ‘Grote and Modjeska were perfectly frank with me. They told me that they had pretended to be leaving last night in order to have an opportunity of watching me and thus making certain that I was in reality quite trustworthy.’

‘What charming candour!’ commented Wallace dryly. ‘And Modjeska showed no resentment?’

‘On the contrary, he has taken his experience rather well!’

‘H’m! I expected him to feel aggrieved. However that’s all to the good, but I shouldn’t do anything in the future if I were you that is likely to hurt his feelings or those of his confederates, even though you may appear quite innocent.’

‘I won’t, sir,’ murmured Carter humbly. ‘You’ve done brilliantly so far. Don’t spoil your work.’

A tall, well-dressed Indian, wearing a beautifully wound turban, walked by at that moment.

‘Grote is coming on deck,’ he observed, and disappeared.

Carter started slightly. It was hard to realise that he had seen Oscar Miles. Sir Leonard promptly rose to his feet.

‘Ah!’ he grumbled, ‘zis sheep moves too much. I will be ver’ glad when he stand still in Ostend.’

He followed in the wake of Miles, staggering with the movement of the boat, and muttering to himself in French. Two or three minutes passed by; then Grote came into view. He did not look very happy, and Carter quickly gathered that the pangs of mal-de-mer were troubling him. He nodded gloomily at the Englishman.

‘Are you not feeling the motion?’ he asked, standing for a moment in front of the other.

‘I like it.’

‘Perhaps you are used to it?’

‘I’ve never been on a ship before,’ declared Carter, hoping the lie would not be marked up against him in the Judgement Book.

‘You’re lucky. The sea never does agree with me.’

Hermann Grote vanished somewhat hastily, and the Secret Service agent chuckled softly to himself. He wondered if Modjeska was enjoying the passage any more than his companion. One of the last to leave the steamer at Ostend, he watched the stout Frenchman and the dignified Indian go ashore. They were not together. Grote and Modjeska followed soon afterwards, the former now appearing as shaky as the man he was assisting. A blue-smocked porter took possession of Carter’s bag, pointing to his number and yelling a stream of French at him, which the Englishman understood perfectly well, but pretended was gibberish to him. His brand-new passport was duly stamped, and he passed through customs without much delay, finding himself eventually in a second-class compartment of the train, packed in
with several men and women of outsized figures. From Brussels to Cologne, however, he was more fortunate; only two others sharing the compartment with him. At Cologne a family party of Germans bound for their home in Passau crowded in, and Carter spent an uncomfortable night attempting to snatch a little sleep squeezed in between a fat frau who snored loudly and a young man, undoubtedly her son, who took after his mother in almost every respect. When they left the train, the Englishman was relieved that only a solitary passenger entered. The Austrian customs officials, as ever, showed great courtesy. They troubled the passengers very little, apologising charmingly for the necessity of disturbing them at all.

Vienna at last! The train ran into the big station bustling with excitement and hurry, noisy with shouts and cries, and the panting of engines like most other large stations, but with an added impression of gaiety that was lacking in the majority. Carter took leave of his travelling companions, who seemed extremely sorry to bid him farewell, and shook hands with great cordiality. He descended to the platform and, refusing the polite offer of a porter to relieve him of his bag, stood waiting for the coming of Modjeska and Grote. A stoutish, happy-looking Tyrolese in his national costume, fair-haired, bronzed face glowing with the health of his beloved mountains, passed slowly by. It was not until he had gone that Carter realised he was Sir Leonard Wallace. A few minutes later a tall, lean man with a monocle, small moustache, and a complexion that suggested years spent under Indian suns came along. Obviously an Englishman, everything about him proclaimed the soldier. Carter had a very good view of him, and it almost gave him a shock when it dawned on him that he was Oscar Julius Miles, the Chief of the USA Secret Service. In some subtle
way his features had been altered. It is quite certain that, if Carter had not known he was there, and had not been on the lookout for him, he would not have recognised him. His eyes sought vainly for Cousins, but he knew that somewhere in the vicinity the little man would be waiting and watching.

Modjeska came to him almost blithely. He seemed to have entirely recovered from the effects of his long walk. With him was a man of about his own size and build, dark-visaged, and fierce-moustached. He was introduced as Bresov; bowed elaborately to Carter, who guessed he was a native of Yugoslavia, and took an instant dislike to him.

‘Mr Bresov,’ announced Modjeska, ‘vill look after you for today and tonight. He has very kindly offered to give you a room in the flat he has in Floridsdorf vhile you are in Vienna. He vill also show you mooch that vill delight you.’

‘That is nice of him,’ acknowledged Carter. ‘Does he speak English?’

Bresov smiled, exhibiting two rows of large, ugly teeth.

‘English,’ he declared in that language, with hardly a trace of accent, ‘is to me like my mother tongue. You should have no fears, therefore, that you and I will not understand each other.’

‘That’s a relief,’ sighed the Englishman. ‘I feel like a fish out of water over here with all these people – talking a lingo I know nothing about.’

Modjeska beamed.

‘Vell your troubles are removed avay. Herr Bresov vill be your – vat you say? Ah! Mouthpiece – he vill be your mouthpiece. I go now with Herr Grote. Tomorrow morning at this time I will come for you.’

He walked away, leaving Carter with Bresov. The latter called a
porter and instructed the man to carry Carter’s bag to a taxicab. Then, taking the Englishman familiarly by the arm, he led him to the exit. The porter stood holding the door of a cab open and, at a word from his companion, Carter stepped in. A tremendous effort of self-control was required at that moment to prevent his displaying surprised emotion. He had not noticed the driver sitting quietly on the box – that driver was Gerald Cousins! Sir Leonard Wallace, as usual, had left nothing to chance. To a man like Carter, familiar with the ramifications of the Secret Service, it was not difficult to guess how matters had been arranged. The porter who had carried the bag to the taxicab was the same man who had politely solicited Carter’s custom on arrival. No doubt he was in the employment of Beust, Sir Leonard’s agent in Vienna, who had also arranged to obtain the taxicab for Cousins. The porter had remained in the vicinity in order that he was certain to be engaged by Bresov, had then carried the bag to the right vehicle. The Yugoslav entered after Carter, having given his address to the driver, and they were driven across the city to a great block of modern flats overlooking the Danube near the Floridsdorf Bridge.

Bresov’s home consisted of three rooms very well lighted, and airy, and exceedingly clean. Carter was impressed. Bresov had retained the taxi and, after his guest had washed, shaved and generally tidied himself, they drove back to the Stephansplatz. There Cousins and his vehicle were dismissed, and rattled away with the ceaseless double toot on the same note that is so typical of the taxis of Vienna.

Carter was thoroughly tired when eventually they returned to the flat and, after thanking his host with forced enthusiasm for the manner in which he had looked after his entertainment, went off
to bed. He took care to place his revolver under his pillow and, with his hand on it, fell fast asleep.