Wallace at Bay (18 page)

‘Queer that you and I should feel like this about croaking these guys,’ commented Miles. ‘When you come to think that they are assassins bent on—Look out!’ he shouted.

At the same time he pushed Carter so sharply that he fell down the ladder, landing rather forcibly on the floor at the bottom. Miles followed as there came a terrific concussion that literally shook the place. Directly afterwards there was another not quite so violent,
but equally awesome. The American rose to his feet as soon as the effects of the second had worn off and darted back up the steps. The shock had shaken the trapdoor into place, but he forced it up and looked out. He saw the two men running towards the other end of the roof, but did not fire. It occurred to him that perhaps it would be as well to let the enemy think they had killed him and Carter for the present. A few yards in front of him was a gaping hole in the roof, another a little farther away. Debris and dust in a fine shower were still falling. The ladder shook and he felt Carter climbing to his side.

‘What on earth happened?’ demanded the latter.

‘Bombs!’ was the terse rejoinder. ‘I saw one of the guys swinging his arm. Sorry I had to be so rough.’

Carter whistled softly. He surveyed the two cavities and whistled again.

‘They seem determined to get us, even if they wreck the house,’ he observed. ‘I wonder why.’

‘I guess they think we’re highly dangerous customers to be at large.’

‘Even so, why go to all this trouble? If they guarded the roof and the door they would know we couldn’t get away. Throwing bombs seems to me to be a trifle unnecessary.’

‘It’s a darn good job those two hadn’t the courage to stand up and throw their toys. Lying down cramped their style I guess, which was lucky for us. If one of those cute little balls had come down here, we’d be looking a bit of a mess now.’

‘I wonder if they’ve forgotten Ilyich is here.’

‘Maybe, or perhaps they reckon he’s dead. They’ll be right along presently to find out if we’re in the same condition.’

His surmise proved correct. A few minutes passed by; then they
made out the forms of three men approaching cautiously along the roof.

‘There seem to be a lot of men,’ mused Carter. ‘Far more than I thought. What are we to do with these three? Shoot them?’

‘I guess we’ll let them get close; then hold them up. Maybe we’ll be able to make terms with them for the return of Sir Leonard in exchange for Ilyich.’

‘I can’t see them agreeing to that.’

‘Why not? They’ll still think they have us in their power.’

‘Supposing they have bombs!’

‘That will be a darn shame – for them,’ declared Miles grimly. ‘Which reminds me: those two guys lying along there with bullets in their beans probably have bombs in their pockets. I sure would like to get hold of them. We might give our friends a little of their own medicine then.’

They watched the cautious approach of the three with a certain amount of amusement. They were taking advantage of every vestige of cover, lingering sometimes behind chimney pots as though most reluctant to advance. When they reached the last between themselves and the trapdoor, they paused for a very long time. The American was about to comment sarcastically upon their tardiness when suddenly a blinding light was focused full on him and his companion. They ducked quickly, but felt they had been seen, especially when they heard angry voices, though the sight of the devastation caused by the misdirected bombs may have been the cause of the outcry. However, Miles decided to parley. Taking care to keep his head below the level of the roof, he called out in German.

‘Your comrade Ilyich is here alive and well,’ he announced. ‘He does not like the position at all, and wants to know why the heck
you are playing the fool with bombs, or words to that effect.’

Apparently the others were surprised at the news that Ilyich was alive. Excited and dismayed conversation could be heard; then a voice responded to Miles.

‘You should give yourselves up at once to prevent further bloodshed,’ it declared in English. Considering that all the blood that had been shed was that of anarchists, the demand struck Carter and Miles as amusing. They laughed aloud.

‘Who is that speaking?’ asked the American.

‘What matters who is speaking?’ came the reply.

‘I guess I want to know if you are anyone in authority.’

‘Ah! It is terms you wish to make. Then I will tell you. I am Vladimir Dimitrinhov.’

Miles clicked his tongue.

‘Now isn’t that just too bad? I thought I shot you in the corridor. It isn’t often I miss. You’re a lucky man, Dimitrinhov.’ It seemed to him that words of a distinctly profane nature rose from behind the chimney pot at that. ‘Where is Comrade Ulyanov?’ he asked.

‘What business is that of yours?’

‘I wish to speak to him.’

‘I will do all the speaking that is necessary. What is it you wish to say?’

‘You can have Ilyich back on condition that you hand over Sir Leonard Wallace to us.’ Surprised exclamations rent the air. That somewhat puzzled Miles. He would have understood laughter and scorn, but surprise rather suggested that the Russians had no more idea where Sir Leonard Wallace was than he had himself. ‘That sounds mighty strange,’ he confided to Carter. ‘Anyone would think that they believed Sir Leonard was with us. There’s no mistaking the fact that they are wonderstruck at my request.’

‘They’re astonished at your nerve in offering to exchange Ilyich for Sir Leonard, I suppose.’

‘It isn’t that sort of astonishment, Tommy. Now where can Sir Leonard be?’

They heard Dimitrinhov’s voice again.

‘If you will let Comrade Ilyich come out, we will consider about your request for Sir Wallace.’

‘Oh, yeah!’ cried Miles with a depth of sarcasm that caused Carter to chuckle. ‘Nothing doing, Vladimir Dimitrinhov. You will have Ilyich with you safe and sound only when Sir Leonard Wallace is with us safe and sound. And, see here! If you keep on throwing bombs about in the inconsequent way your men just illustrated, Ilyich will get it in the neck. Put that under your hat and keep it there. Now switch off that darn light and beat it. I’ll count ten; then my friend and I will start shooting.’

‘It will be better for you if you deliver up Comrade Ilyich, and yourselves come out.’

‘One – two—’ commenced Miles in a loud voice.

The lights went out. The two cautiously raised their heads, and saw the three men hurrying away from them. Miles grunted something about ‘darn cowards’ to himself. They were left in peace for some time after that; the fact that Ilyich was being held more or less as a hostage was apparently a problem which took a considerable amount of solving. When they had thought him dead, it had not mattered what they did. ‘Once a body is dead,’ as Miles put it, ‘it cannot get any deader.’ But now they had reason to believe that their colleague was alive, it behoved them to behave a little more circumspectly unless they cared to risk the chance of his being killed after all. There is no doubt they were distinctly surprised to hear that he was actually still in
the land of the living. Being anarchists, with the mentalities of anarchists, they could think of no reason why their antagonists should burden themselves with a prisoner except as a hostage. That to their minds was a poor reason, because, rather than that Carter and Miles should escape, they would sacrifice their comrade Ilyich. Comrades often must be sacrificed for the good of the cause. Ilyich knew that, which is probably why he gave vent to groans every few minutes.

But if Dimitrinhov and his companions were puzzled, so also were Carter and Miles, but for a different reason. Miles particularly was convinced that the whereabouts of Sir Leonard Wallace was unknown to the anarchists. That being the case, the Chief of the British Secret Service must have escaped. The thought gave the two a tremendous amount of pleasure. They felt that it did not matter what risks they themselves ran so long as Sir Leonard was free from danger.

‘But if he has escaped,’ persisted Carter, who was not quite so convinced as the American, ‘how is it they have not dispersed? They would realise that the first thing he would do would be to go to the Minister of the Interior.’

‘For some reason they thought he was with us,’ was the reply, ‘but now they know he isn’t, you can bet your last dollar they’ll beat it. Anyhow, I guess there’s no point in your going out to look for him now. It’s twenty past ten. It begins to look as though we’ll survive till Jerry and company arrive.’

Miles was wrong, as was very quickly proved, in his conjecture that the anarchists would vanish. Suddenly a determined attack was made on the door. From the clamour that deafened the ears of the defenders they judged that hatchets, hammers and other powerful instruments were being used.

‘I don’t think they’ll succeed in breaking in,’ shouted Miles encouragingly. ‘Their idea of having it steel-lined will be their undoing.’

‘They’re attacking the part where the lock and bolts are,’ yelled Carter. ‘They might force them.’

The American shook his head, quite forgetful that his companion would not be able to see him in the dark. He stiffened somewhat convulsively a moment later, however, when Carter suggested that they might bomb the door.

‘By heck!’ he exclaimed. ‘You and I had better not stop for that performance, Tommy. I sure have no wish to be top of the bill in a bombing act. Directly they drop the racket they’re making now, we’d better beat it out on to the roof and trust to luck.’

‘What about Ilyich?’

‘Guess he can stay where he is. If they’ve no consideration for him, why should we?’

Carter, however, stepped from the ladder and, searching for the Russian’s feet, unstrapped them. The fellow was trembling violently; seemed to be in a regular paroxysm of terror. The Englishman helped him to his feet, and stood by gripping him by the arm. The din went on for some considerable time until both Carter’s and Miles’ heads were throbbing painfully with the sound. The door shook violently; the wireless instruments rattled continuously with the vibration. At last the clatter ceased; was succeeded by a deadly silence.

‘Come on!’ cried Miles. ‘I have a feeling we’ll be a darn sight safer on the roof.’ He pushed back the trapdoor. ‘Make a beeline for the nearest chimney stack.’

‘Go on! I’m coming with Ilyich,’ returned Carter. ‘If you do not want to be blown direct to hell,’ he added tensely to the Russian in
his own language, ‘get out on to the roof. If you try to escape, I’ll shoot you down.’

The fellow was eager enough to go. Carter pushed him up, for he had not unbound his arms. Miles had already gone. Ilyich was stepping out on to the roof when suddenly came the terrible rat-tat-tat of the machine gun. Carter, who was directly behind the Russian, heard a choking cry, saw him stagger, sway drunkenly for a moment, and topple over. All round him seemed to be a swarm of angry bees; he felt the air disturbed on both sides as bullets sped past his head; then he threw himself flat on his face, wriggling desperately towards cover. Something seemed to tear with red-hot fingers at his shoulder, a similar feeling came in his leg, as frantically he swung sideways in an effort to get out of the line of fire. Then came a tremendous crash, an extraordinary upheaval seemed to be taking place, the whole world was, he felt, collapsing round him. At first he seemed to be soaring upward; then falling down into a bottomless pit. His last conscious recollection was of a pair of hands gripping him until he wondered why he did not cry out with the pain. After that the universe went utterly, devastatingly, horribly black.

White and shaken, Miles sat behind the chimney stack, holding on to the unconscious form of Carter. He had reached safety before the machine gun had commenced to rattle out its deadly hail of bullets. He had seen Ilyich collapse; observed Carter dive to the roof and start desperately to wriggle towards him. Without hesitation he had commenced to crawl out to the help of the Englishman. Then had come the explosion. Carter had been literally tossed into the air; was being hurled past him. Somehow the American had caught hold of him; had clung on desperately and had saved him from being flung
over the parapet. He could never remember afterwards how he had done it.

Dazed and quivering in every limb, he yet recollected that the anarchists would be coming to administer the
coup de grâce.
The cloud of debris had settled; he heard triumphant shouts, the patter of feet. Grimly he clutched one of the rifles he had brought with him in his shaking hands. Rolling Carter gently aside, he raised himself to his knees, lifted his weapon, and glanced round the brickwork. Yes; they were coming, several of them. He could not last long, of course, but he intended accounting for a few more before going under. He sighted the rifle and as he fired, whispered the name – ‘Joan!’ A grunt of satisfaction issued from his lips as he observed his object stagger and fall. The others stopped dead, as though taken completely by surprise. Then rose a cry of consternation, of utter dismay; abruptly they turned and fled, as though Satan himself were after them.

‘What the—?’ began Miles, but he, too, now saw the reason for the stampede. From his position he had a view of the grounds in the front of the house. The whole place was lit up, for coming up the avenue was car after car, from which men were jumping almost before they stopped. ‘Good old Jerry!’ chuckled Miles weakly. ‘Bully for you, boy!’

He sank back against the chimney stack. Oscar J. Miles had fainted.

When Sir Leonard Wallace had been summoned from the cellar by Bresov, he had been conducted to a small room on the top floor. Here he found Ulyanov, Grote, Dimitrinhov and Ilyich awaiting him. The President of the International Anarchist Society was sitting at a desk, the others standing behind him. All except the leader were armed. The room was sparingly furnished containing nothing more than the desk, Ulyanov’s chair and three others, a cupboard and a few articles on the desk and mantelpiece. There was not even a carpet on the floor though the boards were polished. A bright fire burnt in the old-fashioned grate, adding a note of friendliness that seemed very much out of place. Bresov remained standing behind Sir Leonard, the other man withdrawing at a peremptory signal from Ulyanov. The Russian leader appeared even more grotesque than when Wallace had first seen him.

He remained without movement for some minutes, apparently engaged in a gloating inspection of the man who was in his power. At last he spoke in German, his rasping voice cutting sharply into the silence.

‘You fool,’ he sneered, ‘did you think to destroy the International Anarchist Society? You, a puny, insignificant simpleton to pit your wits against an organisation that is all-powerful, that has behind it the might of a membership comprising thousands!’

‘It ill becomes one who is himself the puniest and most insignificant of creatures,’ retorted Sir Leonard, ‘to seek to attach such a label to others.’

A grating snarl of rage told him that his remark had struck home.

‘Before you pass to your death, Englishman,’ hissed the dwarf, ‘you will make compensation to me that, for exquisite agony, will hardly have been equalled. I shall sit and watch you squirm, the expression of torture in your face will be to me as a beautiful picture that enraptures me, the screams and groans that break from your lips will be delightful music. But I will not kill you. No, my very clever Sir Leonard Wallace, your death will be arranged by those you have defied for so long, by those whose plans and enterprises you have so wantonly destroyed. It is my intention to hand you over to be dealt with in Moscow – when I have extracted my fill of entertainment from you.’

‘Oh! And how do you propose to present me to Moscow?’ asked Wallace quietly.

A cackling laugh came from the other, but no expression of amusement appeared on his face. It was as though the sound was being emitted from an ugly, inanimate gargoyle.

‘There are many ways,’ came the reply, ‘but the easiest is to
send you to Russia by air. In the grounds, very cleverly hidden, is a sunken runway for an aeroplane, and a hangar in which we keep a machine. Presently a wireless message will be despatched to Moscow to inform them there that you are in my power and suggesting that I send you to that great city for disposal. Yes, we have a wireless installation here. We are well-equipped, are we not? Can you not see the delight, hear the exclamations of triumph and pleasure that will follow the receipt of my message? Do you think for one moment, Herr Wallace, that they will refuse my gift?’

‘If they have any common sense, they certainly will,’ replied Sir Leonard. ‘You fool, do you actually think you can do this sort of thing and escape without suffering drastic retribution?’

‘I will offer to send you either by air or by rail,’ went on Ulyanov, paying no attention whatever to the Englishman’s remarks, ‘but as there are likely to be more complications if you are packed in a box and sent by rail, it is certain that the aeroplane will be used for your conveyance. It will be a nice journey for you. I hope you will enjoy it.’

‘If you have had me brought here just for the purpose of gloating over me, you can spare your poisonous breath, and send me back to the cellar. Your gibes leave me entirely unaffected.’

‘Do they?’ shouted the other. ‘We shall see. You were not brought here for the purpose of gloating over you, as you describe it, my dear friend. There are some questions you will be required to answer. If you refuse, you will be punished until you do speak. If you still refuse, your comrades will speak for you. It will interest you to know that, at midnight tonight, I will hang them on one of the trees in this estate. I do not think Moscow will want to be troubled with them.’

‘You fiend!’ cried Wallace, roused at the thought of the fate that
threatened his companions, when no threat of torture or death applied to himself had any power to move him from his icy calm. The glance from his steel-grey eyes which he shot at the dwarf must have warned the latter that if this man, by some chance, escaped from his clutches, he could expect no mercy from him.

He leant forward.

‘Tell me,’ he snapped, ‘how did you find out that arrangements had been made to remove King Peter from this world? From where did your information come? Who betrayed the whereabouts of the lodgings of Pestalozzi, Haeckel and Zanazaryk? In short, Herr Wallace, I demand to know every item of information concerning this organisation which is in your possession or in that of your government, and the source from which you obtained it.’

Sir Leonard smiled.

‘You are very worried about our knowledge, aren’t you?’ he commented. ‘Do your demands also include the knowledge which the government of the United States possesses?’

‘What is that?’ shot out Hermann Grote in sudden consternation.

‘Merely that you are, or were, the head of the branch in America,’ drawled Wallace, a faint smile on his lips as he noted the anxious expression on the German’s face; ‘that you conveyed to Vienna a sum of three hundred thousand dollars in American notes – all of the numbers of which, I may as well add, are known – and further that—’

He was interrupted by the excited and dismayed exclamations of the anarchists. Grote’s coarse face had turned a dirty white.

‘The numbers are known!’ he repeated wonderingly. ‘How can that be?’ Wallace shrugged his shoulders. ‘It was all honest money,’ persisted Grote; ‘it was not stolen.’

‘Can money collected from those in sympathy with anarchy, to further designs to assassinate innocent men and women, be accounted honest?’ snapped Sir Leonard.

‘Bah!’ grated Ulyanov. ‘You talk like the fool you are. That money was collected to go into our funds, and help us rid the world of the royal wasters who are a blot and a pest on it. Why were the numbers of the notes taken?’

‘Presumably because it was known why the money was being collected. You will gather, Ulyanov, and you, Grote, that not one note of that money can go again into circulation without being traced. As far as you are concerned the three hundred thousand dollars are useless.’

An excited and perturbed discussion followed. Not one of the four apparently thought that Sir Leonard was merely bluffing them. Yet that is exactly what he was doing. The numbers of the notes had not, as far as he was aware, been taken – in fact he was certain they had not – but, if he failed in all else, he meant to ensure that at least the money brought from the United States would not be used to help anarchy reign in the world. Ulyanov at length turned back to him, his manner even more vehement than before.

‘How is it these things about us are known?’ he barked. ‘Who is it or what is it that has supplied you with the information?’ Sir Leonard did not reply. ‘Answer me!’ stormed the Russian. ‘You will answer me, or I will tear out your tongue by the roots.’

‘You could hardly expect to receive an answer then,’ returned the Englishman.

‘I am not jesting. Are you an imbecile so great that you do not think I mean what I say?’

‘I realise that you are quite capable of carrying out your villainous threats, if that is any satisfaction to you.’

‘Good! We then understand each other to that extent. You will, therefore, reply to my questions, and at once.’

‘I shall not reply to questions concerning information in my possession or the possession of my department now or at any other time,’ declared Sir Leonard firmly. ‘You will save yourself a good deal of time and trouble therefore, if you realise that fact now.’

Ulyanov sprang to his feet with a cry that was more animal than human. For a moment he stood glaring at his prisoner from beneath those horrible, drooping eyelids of his; then he walked round the desk slowly, haltingly, as though he were not entirely master of his legs. He stopped barely a yard in front of Wallace, raised his head slowly, and looked up at him. The Englishman felt that nothing would have given him greater pleasure than to grip the creature by the throat and squeeze the life out of him. Temptation, in fact, was very strong. Little did Ulyanov realise the peril in which he stood at that moment. But Wallace felt that the time had not come to show that his hand was actually free. By a display of aggression at that juncture he might ruin all his plans. On the other hand, acquiescence even in brutality might still enable his hopes to be realised. There might remain a possibility of his companions in misfortune getting in touch with Cousins, even if he were unable to do so, and if he revealed that his hands were free it was quite possible that a strong force of men would be sent to make certain that Carter’s and Miles’ hands were not also free. Wallace was sure that they would themselves act on his suggestion, even if he did not return to them, once they were out of the cellar.

‘You mean to defy me?’ demanded Ulyanov, as though spitting at him.

‘I shall certainly not answer your questions, if you consider that defying you.’

With a rapid movement the Russian reached up with his right hand and, digging the long, pointed nails of his fingers into Sir Leonard’s face just below his left eye, tore the skin from cheekbone to chin. The Englishman felt the blood spurt out, cared nothing for the stinging pain, but that the loathsome little creature should lay his claws on him in such a manner was more than he was prepared to let pass unpunished. He did not free his arms; instead he kicked out with all the force of his powerful right leg. Ulyanov’s shrunken body was lifted from the floor. He crashed over on to his back with a jar that shook the room. At once cries of alarm and opprobrium rent the air. Grote and Ilyich went to the assistance of their fallen leader; Dimitrinhov sprang on Wallace, crashed his closed fist into the Englishman’s face. In return he received a kick on the shin that well-nigh broke the bone, and hopped back to the desk to stand on one leg, nursing the injured member in his hand, while he swore without restraint. Bresov grappled Sir Leonard, holding him, as he fondly imagined, quite powerless. But, though he knew he could have released himself had he so desired, Wallace made no attempt to do so.

Screaming maledictions, Ulyanov was raised from the floor.

‘So!’ snarled Ulyanov at length. ‘You dared to attack me, you swine of an Englishman. For that your pains will be greater than ever. Call in your comrades!’ he shouted to Bresov. ‘Let there be no delay, unless they wish to be punished severely.’

The Slav hastened to obey, Ilyich and Grote raising their revolvers and pointing them at Wallace as a warning that they would shoot if he made any attempt to escape. He stood quietly, however, almost without movement.

Bresov quickly returned with half a dozen men who crowded
into the small room on his heels until there seemed hardly room for anyone to move. At Ulyanov’s orders Wallace was seized and stretched full length on his back. He made no attempt at resistance, still allowed his hands to remain loosely bound in the cord that he could easily have shaken off. When he heard the dwarf give orders for the poker to be thrust into the fire and heated, he clenched his teeth, his body stiffened, but he otherwise gave no sign of the horror that filled him. Was the little fiend about to put out his eyes? The thought almost shook his resolution. It was unbearable to think that never again would he look upon Molly or upon his son Adrian; that after a career of success and achievement, of devotion to his country and his king, it should end thus miserably, that he should pass the remainder of his days in darkness, blinded by the fiendish cruelty of this malignant devil of an anarchist, this caricature of a man. Minutes passed slowly, agonisingly. Those who were not engaged in holding him down were staring as though fascinated at the poker in the fire.

At last Ulyanov decided that it was hot enough for his purpose. He slipped off his chair, and limped to the fireplace. In his eagerness he forgot that the heat would have travelled along to the handle which was unprotected. He grasped it and immediately gave vent to a scream of rage and pain. Sir Leonard could not see him, but he could hear him and, guessing what had occurred, felt it some slight compensation for his own sufferings. Ulyanov heaped curses on those surrounding him as though they had been responsible for his injudicious action. A guard of paper thickly folded was quickly made for him, and again he took hold of the poker, this time without mishap. He approached the recumbent form of his victim, his men crushing back before him and his weapon. Sir Leonard saw the glowing red-hot iron, and his nerves began to undergo a
tremendous strain. Barking orders to some of his followers to hold firmly to the Englishman, he commanded others to tear open the clothing covering his breast. Rough hands quickly laid bare his white, clear skin, but Wallace’s sensation at that moment was one of profound relief. Ulyanov did not, after all, contemplate burning out his eyes.

‘You know the questions I wish you to answer,’ came in the harsh, grating voice. ‘If you do not answer, I will brand you with the sign of the society. Answer!’

‘No,’ replied Sir Leonard at once, and in a tone of definite finality.

‘I am not jesting, Englishman. The poker is getting closer and closer to that womanlike skin of yours. It would be a great pity to burn it, would it not?’

Sir Leonard could feel the heat now, but he did not flinch. ‘I have given you my answer,’ he pronounced.

The fiend gave a cry of anger. Immediately the glowing poker descended; there was a hissing sound, the odour of burning flesh. Sir Leonard turned deadly pale beneath the streaks of clotted blood, but not a sound left his white lips, his eyes closed involuntarily for a moment, but opened at once to glare scornfully, contemptuously at his torturer. Anticipating that his victim would writhe and scream out in agony, Ulyanov became infuriated by his calm fortitude. Again he pressed the fiery weapon into the shrinking flesh, but no sound could he draw from those bloodless lips pressed tightly together in agony. At last, with a cry of baffled fury he flung the poker from him, not caring whither it went. It struck a man on the head with tremendous force, causing him to collapse with a scream of pain. Ulyanov turned and glared at the fellow who, not rendered unconscious, grovelled on the floor, hands to his head. Not a word
of sorrow or apology did the dwarf utter. He strode towards the man, touched him roughly with his foot.