Wallace at Bay (15 page)

‘Enough!’ snapped Ulyanov. ‘We shall talk of that afterwards. It is satisfactory to find that Herr Carter is not altogether devoid of feeling. The little experiment we will presently try on him will thus be more likely to succeed. Continue, Herr Grote!’

‘While Modjeska went to fetch the ice cream man from Shirland Road,’ went on the German to Carter, ‘I kept watch on you. I saw you go into room number two, although you were obviously intent on escaping observation. I found out that it was occupied by a person called Wilmer Peregrine Huckleberry Hawthorne. I had no recollection of having seen him about the hotel, but I resolved to discover what he was like. Fortunately for my purpose room number five directly opposite his was unoccupied. I entered, and waited there with my eye to the keyhole. I saw you leave number
two. A little while afterwards he came out, and I recognised him to be Oscar Miles, the Chief of the United States Secret Service. I knew then that we were in grave danger. When Modjeska returned I told him, and we agreed that for the sake of the society, apart from all other considerations, we must get you and him as well, if possible, out of England and into our power. Ivan had brought back the ice cream vendor with him – in the wintertime he sells cooked potatoes. Did you not see an Italian selling potatoes from his little oven on wheels when you re-entered the hotel, Herr Carter?’

An almost imperceptible gasp escaped from the Secret Service man. He remembered now that he had noticed the Italian, when he had returned from telephoning Sir Leonard Wallace. Grote’s ugly smile was again on his face. ‘Ah! I see you did,’ he commented, ‘but you did not know why he was really there. You found Ivan Modjeska apparently asleep in the lounge and went out again. Modjeska had not been asleep. Directly you had gone he joined me – I was waiting outside – and we went to the Italian who told us he had seen you with the other officers on the night of the raid. Now you know why it is useless for you to keep up any longer the pretence of being a fiery communist. You are a member of the British Secret Service, Herr Carter.’

The young man shrugged his shoulders coolly. He realised only too well that it would be absurd, after what he had been told, to endeavour to carry on the masquerade. A feeling of intense bitterness pervaded his whole being. By a stupid little oversight he had destroyed all he had accomplished. Not only that, but he had been the innocent means of disclosing the real identity of the so-called Wilmer Hawthorne to the man he was after; had probably exposed the American and Sir Leonard Wallace to the
gravest danger, as well as throwing the royal families of the world back into the fiendish, gaping jaws of the doom from which they were on the verge of escaping. He felt terribly downhearted. Not for one moment did he trouble about the peril in which he himself stood.

‘You have heard,’ came the rasping voice of Ulyanov, ‘what Herr Grote has told you. Do you still wish to join the society as the London agent?’

‘What do you intend to do?’ asked Carter ignoring the mocking question.

‘You were brought out here because we wish to know exactly how much information about us and our activities is possessed by the British authorities.’

‘Oh!’ commented the Englishman, ‘and do you expect to obtain that information from me?’

The bald head was inclined slightly.

‘We are wise enough to realise that our organisation is in a certain amount of peril, and our plans in danger of being frustrated. It was thought, when it became known who you are, that you had wormed your way into Ivan Modjeska’s confidence for the purpose of discovering the headquarters of the society. That being so you would undoubtedly be followed by colleagues of yours, perhaps by the great Sir Leonard Wallace himself. If we could get this Wallace into our power, we felt that by exterminating him we should effectually remove the danger that at present hangs over our heads.’

‘You’re an optimist,’ observed Carter. ‘The British Secret Service never admits itself beaten even when everything is against it. The death of Sir Leonard Wallace would not remove your danger, rather it would enhance it, for not one man of the department would rest until your filthy society was destroyed completely and for ever.’

‘But if the brain is wrecked, what is the use of the body? Listen, young man! I have a personal animus against Sir Leonard Wallace. I have never met him, but he has baulked the designs of my country on innumerable occasions. His death would be acclaimed in Russia alone as a great, a wonderful event. I would almost view the destruction of the society with equanimity, if I could see this Wallace lying dead.’

The volume of hatred which was concentrated into his harsh voice as he spoke then was appalling. Carter felt a chill run through him.

The man on Ulyanov’s right, a big fellow, with a fair beard and shifty, restless eyes plucked him by the sleeve; whispered into his ear. Impatiently he snatched his arm away.

‘You are a fool, Dimitrinhov,’ he snapped in Russian. ‘What does it matter what I tell him? He will die directly he has been made to speak.’

Carter eyed the bearded man with fresh interest. So that was Dimitrinhov, of whom he had heard quite a lot. He was reputed to be a very active member, with a genius for organisation. A man farther along the table observed that he thought there had been enough talk, that it was time for action. Ulyanov turned on him with all the deadly ferocity of a poisonous snake. The man, whose name appeared to be Kharkov and whom Carter guessed to be a Bulgarian, shrank back in his seat before the withering blast of vituperation that poured from the lipless mouth of his leader. There were no further interruptions. Ulyanov turned his veiled gaze again upon the Englishman.

‘When you arrived in Vienna yesterday,’ he grated, ‘the station was full of our agents on the lookout for people who might be trailing you. A number of suspicious-looking individuals have
been followed since and –’ his voice fell to a horrible kind of purr ‘– one has proved to be the American, Miles. Herr Grote, who knows him well, has seen him and identified him, even though he is disguised, I am told, very cleverly. Another, who it is nearly certain must be a colleague of yours, is attired in Tyrolese costume. Tell me, Herr Carter, is he by a fortunate chance, your chief, Sir Leonard Wallace?’

Carter laughed at him.

‘You must think I am a fool,’ he returned. ‘Do you think I would tell you if he were? And how do you expect me to recognise any man by a description which merely states that he is attired in Tyrolese costume?’

‘You know who followed you,’ snarled Ulyanov, ‘and I will know also. Tell me,’ he suddenly shouted, his metallic voice reverberating throughout the room; ‘how many are there, and is one of them Wallace? Answer!’

Carter simply smiled. He coolly took a cigarette case from his pocket, selected a cigarette and put it into his mouth.

‘Have you a match?’ he asked.

There were gasps of astonishment from the others at such effrontery. Ulyanov uttered a sound that was beast-like and, throwing himself forward, flung out a talon-like hand in a fierce attempt to snatch the case from the Englishman. But he could not reach, and the latter returned it to his pocket.

‘Ah!’ he murmured lightly. ‘I have a box. I thought I had left it in the little room below.’

He calmly lit his cigarette; puffed a cloud of smoke in Ulyanov’s direction. Two or three of the other members of the Council of Ten had risen, the men who had been grouped by the door had advanced until they were close behind Carter. They only awaited
a signal from their leader to precipitate themselves on the defiant Englishman, but the hairless atrocity in the presidential chair did not give it. Instead he waved his men back.

‘So you dare to scorn my demand,’ he said in much quieter tones. ‘You are foolish, young man, utterly foolish. You will regret it greatly before very long.’

‘I suppose you are going to tell me that if I divulge all you wish to know you will spare my life.’

‘No, your life cannot be spared. You know too much – you must die. But there are different degrees of dying. There are some deaths that can be so prolonged and horrible, Herr Carter, that the victims weep and pray for death.’

‘That is the kind you reserve for me, I presume?’

‘Exactly. I will give you another chance. Tell me all that is known about the society of which I am president, and how information was obtained which enabled your people to raid the house in London in which Pestalozzi, Haeckel, Zanazaryk and Casaroli were killed. If you do that you will merely be shot. An easy death and a speedy one, you will agree. If you refuse –’ his voice became strident again ‘– you will die by slow degrees, and every minute will be to you a year of exquisite agony.’

‘The picture you draw is charming – delightfully artistic in fact,’ commented Carter, showing not the least sign of agitation, though his blood felt as though it had frozen within him. ‘Well here is my answer––’

‘Just one moment. I do not ask you again to tell me who have followed you to Vienna. Soon they will be in my power as you are, for it is certain they have traced you here. There are between twenty and thirty men waiting for them, who have instructions to let them get well into the grounds before capturing them.’ At that
item of news Carter began to feel that all hope had gone; his heart seemed to become leaden. ‘All I wish you to tell me is what the British Secret Service know of our activities, and what evidence is possessed against us.’

‘Go to the devil!’ snapped Carter, and this time blew a cloud of tobacco smoke direct into Ulyanov’s face.

The Englishman’s action was the signal for another advance on him, while shouts of opprobrium were hurled at him from all sides. The vulturine creature in the great chair stilled the clamour however. With an almost imperceptible motion of one of his talon-like fingers he beckoned to Modjeska. The Pole rose from his seat and approached along Carter’s side of the table until he was standing close to the latter.

‘I think,’ observed Ulyanov, ‘that you will not have much difficulty in making him speak. Is it not so, Ivan Modjeska?’

The Pole’s queer eyes glittered.

‘Let me have entire silence,’ he urged in German, ‘otherwise it is not possible.’

He removed his pince-nez, and Carter knew that an attempt was about to be made to hypnotise him. He shivered involuntarily, not because of any fear he felt of the powers of Modjeska, but at the
memory of another occasion, when he had almost succumbed to an attempt to hypnotise him into killing one of his own colleagues. He had nothing but disdain for the flabby-faced Pole; had no doubt whatever that he would be able to withstand the influence of the man’s uncanny eyes.

‘What are you going to do?’ he asked in a conversational voice.

‘You vill see very soon,’ was the blunt reply.

‘If you think you are going to hypnotise me, you can save yourself the trouble of trying. Did you ever hear of a joker called Prilukoff, my dear Ivan?’

Modjeska gave a violent start; Ulyanov leant forward until his chin was almost touching the table.

‘What do you know of Dr Prilukoff?’ he rasped.

Others awaited Carter’s answer as though deeply interested. His mention of the name seemed to have caused a minor sensation.

‘All I know about him is that he was reputed to be the finest hypnotist in the world, and was used by the Bolshies to further some of their infernal plots. He paid a visit to England – I don’t know whether it was his first; it was certainly his last – during which he attempted to hypnotise me.’

‘Did he not succeed?’ snapped Ulyanov.

‘Not quite. He died with a bullet in his heart.’

‘And Sir Leonard Wallace shot him,’ came with an oath in his own language from Dimitrinhov.

‘Oh, so you know that, do you?’

‘All Russia knows it. Dr Prilukoff had a great reputation in Russia. His death is one of the most important items in the heavy score the Soviet have against the name of Wallace.’

‘We are waiting, Ivan Modjeska,’ barked the metallic voice of Ulyanov.

‘Yes; get on with your stuff,’ added Carter, throwing down his cigarette end, and crushing it under his heel, ‘but be careful, Modjeska, that history does not repeat itself. It would be strange if you also died – with a bullet through your heart.’

The Pole was looking worried. He realised that the calm young Englishman was not going to be an easy subject. He placed himself in front of Carter and commenced his fight to obtain possession of the latter’s senses in order to make him give the information that was of such vital importance to him and his companions. His uncanny eyes began to bore piercingly into those of Carter and, with a shudder, the young man’s mind went back to those terribly distorted eyes of Prilukoff’s which had seemed to grow larger, more evil, every moment until the whole world to the Secret Service agent had appeared nothing but merciless, devouring, all-enveloping eyes. Modjeska could not gain an influence over him of that nature. From the start Carter knew he would be able to resist the mesmeric powers of the Polish anarchist. He exerted all the strength of his will, and a feeling of triumph surged through him as he saw beads of perspiration beginning to break out on the other’s brow. He was defeating him, and defeating him badly. Grimly, despairingly now, Modjeska put all that was in him into the unholy effort to obtain control over his obstinate subject’s mind. The other men in the room watched fascinated, hardly daring to breathe. Almost half an hour went by; then suddenly, with a great groan, the Pole collapsed against the table, his eyes closed. He was beaten. Carter gave a great laugh of triumph.

As though it were a signal, every man at the table rose, with the sole exception of Ulyanov. Bresov and the others behind the Englishman darted forward. Thinking that his last moment was at hand he sprang to his feet, determined to sell his life dearly. He
adroitly eluded two who made a grab at him, and slipped quickly to an untenanted corner of the room, drawing his revolver as he did so. There, with his back to the wall, he faced them, with the light of battle in his eyes, a smile on his lips.

‘The first man who moves a finger will die,’ he cried in German. ‘There are fourteen of you – I am one. Who will be the first to go west?’

There was a dead silence; everyone stood immobile glaring at him. Then Ulyanov’s harsh cracked voice bit into the silence. He was in a convulsion of passion horrible to behold.

‘Fool! Fool!’ he screamed at Bresov in Russian. ‘He stayed in your rooms last night. How is it you allowed him to retain a weapon?’

‘I went to search him for one,’ returned Bresov sullenly, ‘when I thought him asleep, but he heard me, and I was forced to give up the attempt.’

‘Coward! Pig! Dolt! Swine!’ shouted Ulyanov foaming at the mouth. ‘For your wretched weakness you will pay dearly. Are you all cowards?’ he went on to the others. ‘You are many; he is one. Why don’t you take him?’

‘Why don’t you?’ asked Carter coolly, speaking in the same language. ‘Listen to me, Ulyanov, I will shoot down any of you who stir as I would a mad dog. There should be no mercy for assassins, and I will extend none. I wonder that I don’t shoot you now and as many of those at the table with you. It would rid creation of the leaders of as foul an organisation as the world has ever seen.’

‘Bah!’ snarled Ulyanov striving to control himself. ‘You crow like a proud cockerel for a little time, but how long can you stand there defying us? You would be better advised to submit quietly. The longer you hold out, the worse will be your fate. I swear it!’

‘Swear away,’ encouraged Carter cheerfully, ‘at present I have the whip-hand, and I intend to keep it.’

Nevertheless, despite his defiance, he was wondering how long he would be able to hold them off. There were no doors or windows at that side of the room. In order to get out he would have to drive those barring his way before him at the point of his revolver. Then there would be the danger that he would be attacked from behind by the men at his end of the table. It would be well-nigh impossible to keep both those in front and on his right at bay at the same time. Modjeska had recovered himself by that time, and turned to glare at the Englishman, hatred, bestial, naked, looking from his eyes. Whether it was that his intense loathing of the man whom he had failed so signally to bring under the influence of his will made him blind to his danger, or that the string of epithets flung at him by the enraged Ulyanov drove him to desperation, it would be hard to tell. It certainly will never be known. Suddenly, with an animal-like scream of fury he launched himself at Carter. The latter sidestepped.

‘Back!’ he roared, ‘Or I shoot.’

But Modjeska threw himself at him again. He fired. A little spurt of blood appeared from the Pole’s right eye. He stopped dead as though he had plunged against a wall. For a perceptible fraction of a second he remained upright; then crashed to the floor. Carter looked down at him.

‘History does repeat itself,’ he murmured grimly. ‘He won’t hypnotise any more poor devils into killing themselves.’

Unfortunately for him, however, he had not noticed that, while he was engaged with Modjeska, Bresov had darted silently and swiftly along close to the wall; had thus succeeded in getting behind him. His first notification of the Yugoslav’s presence came
when he felt his revolver arm grappled. Desperately he fought to free himself, but, with yells of triumph, the other three threw themselves on him. Even then he continued fiercely to resist. He succeeded with a tremendous effort in forcing the revolver round and firing again. One of the men clapped his hands to his abdomen and, groaning with agony, staggered from the fight. Others now joined in, and Carter went down beneath the weight of numbers. His weapon was torn from his grasp; he was practically battered into unconsciousness. They treated him unmercifully, kicking and belabouring with brutal cruelty. At length they desisted, dragged him to the chair he had hitherto occupied, and pushed him into it. Ulyanov was very pleased with the turn affairs had taken, though he showed little of his delight in his expressionless, parchment-like face.

‘You are sorry now that you were so foolish?’ he questioned, his voice grating on Carter’s throbbing brain.

The Englishman raised his bruised and battered face; eyed him defiantly.

‘Not a bit,’ he declared stubbornly. ‘I have at least succeeded in ridding the world of one fiend, possibly two. Your turn and the turn of those with you will come, Ulyanov.’

‘Take him below,’ ordered the president. ‘See that he is well guarded. Later we will see what we can do to loosen his tongue. I guarantee we will succeed where poor Modjeska failed.’

Cruel laughs from several of the others followed his words. Carter was dragged to his feet; hauled brutally across the room. His captors and he had almost reached the door when it was flung open. Into the apartment entered half a dozen men. In their midst, their arms tied behind their backs, their clothes torn, their faces bruised and covered with blood, were Sir Leonard Wallace and Oscar Miles. Both were still in the costumes and make-up, or as much as was left,
that Carter had noticed at the railway station. Sir Leonard’s eyes met those of his young assistant; he heard the groan which involuntarily broke from Carter as he observed that his beloved chief and Miles had been captured. Wallace actually smiled.

‘I thought the game was up when we heard those shots, Carter,’ he observed casually. ‘Bad luck.’

‘I guess this is some mess,’ commented Miles.

The fresh captives were pushed towards the table, the nine remaining members of the Council of Ten making no attempt to disguise their feelings of triumph and delight. Ulyanov ordered Bresov to bring back Carter. He was placed in line with Sir Leonard and Miles. This was the last straw, he thought. He had hoped against hope that the two would have escaped capture. Now he was plunged into the very depths of despair and remorse. Hermann Grote was leaning forward, his coarse face alight with exultation, his little eyes fixed on Miles with gloating satisfaction.

‘Miles!’ he breathed. ‘Mr Oscar MiIes! This is indeed a very great pleasure.’

‘I guess I’m glad you feel that way,’ was the cool retort. ‘I shall reciprocate the sentiment when I see your dead body. It will look a lot more wholesome than it does now.’

‘So you are Herr Miles, the Chief of the United States Secret Service,’ rasped Ulyanov in English. ‘We are indeed fortunate to have this opportunity of entertaining a man so important and so famous.’

Miles stared at him.

‘Gee!’ he exclaimed. ‘What kind of abortion are you? Barnum and Bailey would feel mighty sore if they had known they had missed you.’ He turned to Wallace. ‘Say, did you ever see a freak like it?’ he asked.

Sir Leonard shook his head.

‘I don’t think I have,’ he returned quietly. ‘Perhaps it has dropped from Mars.’

‘It sure wasn’t Venus,’ murmured Miles.

Ulyanov broke into another of his uncontrollable fits of rage, his metallic voice grating out a string of profane imprecations. Wallace listened to him with an air of disgust, Miles as though mildly interested. At length the flow ceased.

‘My!’ commented the American in tones of admiration. ‘It goes well when it’s wound up, but it runs down too quickly. I guess I know where it was manufactured – it’s marked Czechoslovakia, isn’t it, Tommy?’

‘No,’ returned Carter, grinning despite his aches and his depression. ‘It’s Russian, rejoices in the name of Ulyanov, and is the president of the Council of Ten – nine now, Modjeska’s dead. I shot him.’

‘Now, isn’t that too bad? Poor Ivan! You’ve kinder spoilt his ideas, Tommy.’

‘Be quiet!’ snapped Ulyanov.

‘What you say goes, I guess,’ murmured the irrepressible American.

‘Who are you?’ demanded the monstrosity in the great chair, pointing one of his claw-like fingers at Sir Leonard.

‘A friend I brought right along to say “how do”,’ put in Miles.

‘Did I not tell you to be quiet? If you speak again I will have you gagged.’

‘I will talk outer my turn. It’s a bad habit I’ve got into.’

Ulyanov snarled an order to Bresov, who promptly clamped a handkerchief into Miles’ mouth and tied it behind his head. The American winked at Carter. He actually seemed to be enjoying himself.

‘I ask once more,’ Ulyanov snarled at Wallace: ‘Who are you?’

‘Is my name of any importance?’ drawled Sir Leonard.

‘Yes; it is of great importance. You are an Englishman or an American – of that I am certain. But I must know your name and why you are here.’

The Englishman merely smiled at him, whereupon he ordered them all to be searched.

Rough hands at once commenced feeling among the clothing of the three prisoners, which became dishevelled and torn with unnecessary brutality. Everything in their pockets was abstracted and placed in three heaps on the table. Sir Leonard’s picturesque coat was split down the back, the left sleeve ripped from the shoulder to the elbow. The shirt beneath was torn open, exposing the arm beneath. Then came a great cry from Dimitrinhov. He was on his feet, staring at Wallace, his finger pointing at the Englishman’s arm.

‘Look!’ he shouted. ‘It is artificial!’

‘What of it?’ demanded Ulyanov.

‘Did you not know, comrade?’ came from the other in a tone of great triumph. ‘The Chief of the English Secret Service has a false arm. How often have we in Russia been told of that, when ordered to watch for him! This man is Wallace, I tell you – Sir Leonard Wallace!’

The rest were on their feet now, talking excitedly to each other, their eyes fixed exultantly, malignantly, on the Englishman. For the first time Ulyanov rose from his chair. Standing there he looked more repulsive than ever. He was a dwarf, not more than four feet six inches in height. His thin figure, like that of a boy, allied to the grotesque head that had the appearance of vast age, gave the onlookers a sense of deep horror.