Wallace at Bay (21 page)

‘Do you not think, Comrade Ulyanov,’ he remarked, ‘that enough blood had been shed and enough damage done already? Perhaps if you had killed the three spies when they first fell into our hands the society would still be triumphant and secure. As it is, we are ruined. The sooner we depart for Russia the better for us all. Is it possible to start while it is still dark?’ he asked Vassallo.

‘Possible, but not easy, as we dare not use flares,’ was the reply. ‘The runway is good but not too long.’

‘Will the noise of the engine be heard?’ snapped Ulyanov.

‘Yes, comrade, that is certain, but we shall be away before any can reach here and stop us; that is,’ he added, ‘if there are not already police and soldiers searching nearby.’

‘Why should they be searching?’ rasped the Russian. ‘Get ready quickly, and we will depart. Let this cursed Englishman be bound from head to foot.’

The pain of his shattered wrist seemed to have taken a lot of the tigerish, overbearing tyranny out of the dwarf. He moved about uttering little moaning sounds horribly reminiscent of an animal in pain, but he snarled viciously when Kharkov offered to bind up his arm. A rope was procured from within the aeroplane and bound cruelly round Sir Leonard until his captors were assured that he could neither move hand nor foot. That done, they inspected injuries and did their best to clean and bandage them. With the exception of Kharkov they were all damaged in greater or lesser degree. Dimitrinhov still lay unconscious, it being fairly evident that his skull was fractured; Papanasstou had a bullet through his shoulder and his right arm was consequently useless; Mossuth’s left arm, which he had raised to protect himself from the crowbar, was badly bruised and numbed, the blood still streamed from the glancing blow he had received on his head; Vassallo’s right hand was temporarily out of action, due to the jolt administered to it when Sir Leonard had caused him to drop his revolver. They were an aching, vicious, woebegone crowd and the glances thrown at the unconscious form of the Englishman boded ill for him. If it had not been for Ulyanov’s orders it is certain that they would have murdered him where he lay.

At length all was ready for the start of the flight. Dimitrinhov was lifted into the saloon of the machine, Sir Leonard was thrown in as though he had been a sack of potatoes, the shock bringing him to his senses. Then the doors of the hangar were rolled back, and Vassallo, Kharkov, Mossuth, and Papanasstou wheeled the aeroplane out into the open. It was darker now than it had been
all night, the moon having set long since, while a great threatening bank of cloud had blown up. Vassallo glanced rather apprehensively at the sky, but, whatever his thoughts may have been, he did not voice them. No doubt he knew it would be useless, while he was as anxious to put a long distance between himself and Austria as were his companions.

There was some difficulty in starting the engine. It proved obstinate, probably on account of the cold, while the aching arms of all but Kharkov hardly conduced to great exertion. Ulyanov stood by watching their efforts, growing more vehemently impatient as the minutes passed. At last Vassallo succeeded. The powerful engine leapt into vibrating life with a roar. In haste now, lest their enemies might arrive before they could get away, they scrambled into the machine, Kharkov and Mossuth practically lifting in the dwarf. Vassallo took his place in the pilot’s seat; the great aeroplane began to move forward. It was at that moment that a beam of light shot out from the trees on one side, became focused on the pilot. Two men, one tall, the other short, dashed out of cover.

‘No time for ceremony,’ muttered the latter to himself.

He fired and a bullet sped unerringly into the brain of Vassallo. He fell sideways, and the all-metal Junkers swung round, ran from the prepared ground, dashed headlong into the bushes and trees, coming to a sudden stop with a tearing, grinding sound.

On leaving Miles and Carter in the cellar, Cousins, the man on whom so much depended, crept cautiously through the domestic quarters of the house. His luck remained good, for they were unoccupied, as they had been when he had entered. Walking along a passage he reached the door by way of which he had broken in – it had been locked and bolted and he had been forced to use a couple of the finely-tempered steel instruments on the bunch left by Sir Leonard Wallace. Nobody had since locked it he was glad to observe, and opening it cautiously he peered out. He heard someone cough a little distance away on his right; from his left came the sound of low voices. The men on watch were still very much on the alert. Pity it was a moonlight night, thought Cousins. However, there was no time to lose; he could not wait until the guards had moved away. He stepped out, closing the door softly behind him. Fortunately
there was a hedge a few yards away. Once he was in its shadow he would be comparatively safe from observation. The trouble was that in order to reach it he would be compelled to cross a bright patch of moonlight. He decided that he would be more likely to get away unsuspected if he made no attempt at concealment. While a man approaching the house would be subject to the sharpest surveillance, one leaving it would be hardly likely to have a great deal of notice taken of him, unless he showed a desire to hide himself or acted suspiciously in any other way.

Cousins strolled away quite openly from the door. He even whistled the Internationale. His sharp eyes noticed several shadowy figures on either side and at some distance from him. It was comforting to reflect that he was as shadowy to them as they were to him, but, if his heart were beating a little more rapidly than usual, he gave no sign of agitation or concern. He reached the hedge unchallenged, continued whistling for a little while, then stopped, stood still and listened intently. Having made certain that he was not being followed he slipped along the hedge, presently disappearing among the trees. For the next half hour he dodged from cover to cover with the stealth and expert tread of an Indian scout. Not a twig cracked under his feet, not a leaf rustled as he glided by. Two or three times he passed within a few feet of men patrolling the grounds; thought grimly that this Council of Ten guarded itself very thoroughly. He wondered if the house and estate were always as closely watched, or whether the present precautions were due to the events of the day.

He did not make for the main gates; they were too well picketed. He had found that out when entering the grounds;
he had been compelled to climb the wall at a remote end of the estate. He made for the same place now, but when he reached it found there were men in the vicinity. On he went, but every time he drew near to the wall his intentions of scaling it were frustrated by the presence of one or more of the vigilant anarchists. He began to despair of ever getting out when, making his way through a dense mass of untended shrubbery, he came to rising ground, wild, unkept and bosky. At least, he thought, he would be able to survey his surroundings from the top. He found it a difficult job getting through the thick, tangled brushwood, but eventually succeeded, to find, to his astonishment, that the slope came to a sudden termination. He was gazing down on the roof of a long building built flush against the hillside. Ahead as far as he was able to see, was a wide clearing.

Cousins was intrigued. He decided that although he was pressed for time a little investigation would not be out of place. He rolled rather than scrambled down the steep declivity, arriving at the bottom with his clothes rather the worse for the venture. He had not spent many minutes inspecting the building before he found, as he had expected, that it was an aeroplane hangar. Extending before the great doors for a couple of hundred yards – he calculated the distance by walking the length – was a well-laid-out runway. The knowledge he had gained, more or less by accident, might prove to be of great value later on he reflected. He was unable to spare the time to investigate further then; it was sufficient to be aware of the presence of an aeroplane. He walked on through the wooded slopes beyond the runway, coming at length to the wall again. There appeared to be no guard in that vicinity at all, but he
made as certain as was possible before scaling it. It was not an easy feat, but Cousins made light of it.

Half an hour later he was in Dornbach, had reclaimed his motorcycle from the Keller where he had left it, and was speeding as fast as he could go towards the British Legation in the Reisnerstrasse. The American minister had dined with Sir Richard Lindsay, and they were sitting in the latter’s study discussing the matter uppermost in their minds, when the arrival of Cousins was announced. Sir Richard gave orders for him to be admitted without delay. He immediately plunged into his story, the two ministers listening almost without daring to breathe lest they should lose something of the narrative, so great was their interest and concern. When they heard of the peril in which Sir Leonard Wallace, and, to a lesser extent, Miles and Carter stood, they became exceedingly apprehensive. Both were men of action and, having become possessed of facts and evidence necessary to prove to the Austrian government the existence of a great anarchist organisation with headquarters actually in a suburb of Vienna, they bestirred themselves promptly.

An appointment was made by telephone with the Minister of the Interior, the urgency of an immediate interview being impressed on him. He was also asked to invite the Minister of Justice to the conference. The two members of the government were vastly intrigued at the request, and received Sir Richard and his companion with every appearance of deep interest. They became two very astonished men when the whole story was related to them. At first they found it hard to credit. The house at Dornbach was supposed to belong to an eccentric but harmless Russian millionaire, who was thought to be an
invalid, and kept himself in consequence severely secluded. But the significance of the circumstance that the ministers plenipotentiary of two such great nations as Great Britain and the United States had called in person to place the facts before them and urge immediate action, persuaded them that indeed their beloved capital had been used as the headquarters of a terrible organisation. The Minister of justice sent at once for the Chief of Police; Colonel Wachter, the Minister of War, who lived within a short distance, was called in. Shortly after ten o’clock a strong force of police and military was under arms. Led by Colonel Wachter and the Chief of Police in person, and with Cousins riding ahead on his motorcycle, the men drove to Dornbach in thirty cars.

As the leading vehicles swept up the avenue there came a terrific explosion and a flash of flame showed for a moment at one end of the roof. A little later a single rifle shot rang out. The men tumbled out of the cars and under orders quickly surrounded the building and outhouses. It had been Colonel Wachter’s original intention to summon the inmates to allow him and his men to enter; if they refused, to force an entry. The explosion and the rifle shot, however, decided him to dispense with the summons. The men were ordered to break in, others were sent to scour the grounds and take captive everyone they came across. Led by their officers, the policemen and soldiers smashed their way in with a hearty goodwill. Before long they were overrunning the house. Here and there they came across parties of anarchists who resisted desperately, and were shot down to a man. A few on the roof with a machine gun held out for some time, but were eventually exterminated. At length the building was in complete control
of the authorities, only a few dejected-looking anarchists, now heavily manacled, remaining alive. Cousins went to the roof as soon as all resistance had ceased, the explosion and rifle shot having told him that his colleagues were up there. He found Carter and Miles by the chimney stack, the latter having just recovered from the faint which had been caused by a wound in his shoulder. He gratefully drank from the flask of brandy held out to him by the little Secret Service man. Carter was more seriously wounded – he had been hit four times, twice in the left leg, once in the left shoulder and once in his right side. He was quickly placed under the care of the doctor who had accompanied the force. Cousins and Miles heaved huge sighs of relief when told that he would recover.

The complete disappearance of Sir Leonard Wallace caused them immense alarm and anxiety. The suggestion that he had escaped was no longer considered, since he would have been certain to have got in touch with the authorities if he had. Cousins accompanied by Miles, who, as soon as his injury had been dressed, declared himself to be fit for anything, ransacked the building from cellar to roof, incidentally handing over the three men Carter and Miles had imprisoned down below. Their apprehension increased when Miles ascertained that Ulyanov, Dimitrinhov, Grote and three other members of the Council of Ten were also missing. It was then Cousins remembered the hangar, and decided to search it. Accompanied by an officer and ten men and of course Miles, who refused to be left behind, he led them unerringly to that wild, remote part of the estate which had been cleared as an aeroplane runway. Forcing their way through the tangled brushwood they heard the sudden roar of the engine. At once careless of torn clothing
and lacerated hands, Miles and Cousins broke into a run, pulling forth their revolvers as they went. They emerged from cover just in time, as has already been related. The officer and his ten men were not very far behind them and, taking in the situation at a glance, for Cousins kept the powerful torch focused on the aeroplane, the officer ordered his men to surround the machine.

‘Good Heavens!’ gasped Cousins suddenly. ‘What on earth is that?’

Looking out of the window of the saloon at them, his horrible, usually expressionless face now distorted with malevolent fury, was Ulyanov. On one side of him was Mossuth, on the other Kharkov; both were white, apparently with fear.

‘I guess that’s the cause of all the darn trouble,’ declared Miles. ‘That, Jerry, is Ulyanov the President of the Council of Ten.’

‘“But thou are neither like thy sire nor dam”,’ murmured Cousins, “But like a foul misshapen stigmatic, Mark’d by the destinies to be avoided, as venom toads, or lizards’ dreadful stings.” What a caricature!’ He stepped forward. ‘Come out, all of you!’ he shouted in German.

There appeared to be a fierce altercation going on inside. Ulyanov was bent on defying the men surrounding the machine, but Kharkov, Mossuth and Papanasstou had hopes of saving their lives perhaps, by surrendering. Suddenly the Greek threw open the door of the saloon; was about to step out, but with a shrill, gurgling cry he abruptly threw up his arms, swayed for a moment, then plunged out head first, to lie face downwards on the grass quivering out his life. Ulyanov had stabbed him in the back. At an order from the officer his men promptly fired, both
Mossuth and Kharkov being hit, but, as though anticipating the discharge, Ulyanov had ducked below the window. There came a cackle of horrible, mad laughter.

‘Good God!’ gasped Cousins. ‘I believe he has Sir Leonard in there, and—’

He and Miles dashed forward together. The sight that met their eyes almost drove them to a frenzy. Bending over the cruelly bound form of Sir Leonard Wallace was the dwarf. Holding in his left hand the knife with which he had already committed two murders that night, he was engaged in stabbing Sir Leonard, not fatally, but deeply enough to cause the blood to flow profusely.

‘Death by a thousand cuts!’ he was cackling in a harsh, horrible, gloating voice.

With a cry of awful horror Cousins darted into the saloon, but Miles was even quicker. The American grasped Ulyanov by the collar of his coat and dragged him snarling, hissing venomously, out into the open. There he threw him to the ground, and was about to advise the soldiers to bind him with ropes when the abominable, repellent caricature of a man was on its feet again. With an unearthly cry it launched itself straight at the American, the long, thin knife gleaming malevolently in the light thrown on the scene by the soldiers’ torches.

‘Guess it won’t be happy till it gets it,’ muttered Miles, as he stepped back and fired.

Ulyanov was in mid-air when the bullet caught him. A long, wailing shriek struck a chill into the blood of everyone who heard it; the Russian pitched forward on to his head, rolled over into a crumpled heap, and lay still. Some of the men standing
by crossed themselves. Miles, noticing the reverent gesture, nodded gravely.

‘I reckon,’ he murmured to himself, ‘that if ever Satan inhabited a human body it was that guy’s.’

He returned to the saloon of the aeroplane. Cousins, almost sobbing at sight of the terrible disfigurement to Sir Leonard’s chest, and the officer were engaged in staunching the flow of blood and dressing the wounds as best they could until a doctor could attend to them properly. The rope had been cut away. Miles’ eyes glittered with a cold fury.

‘Did he do that to you, Sir Leonard?’ he asked huskily.

Sir Leonard smiled a little weakly, and nodded.

‘I will bear something always that will remind me that we wiped out the International Anarchist Society,’ he remarked. ‘It is entirely wiped out, isn’t it?’ he asked eagerly.

‘Wiped out!’ repeated Miles. ‘I guess I never saw anything more wiped out.’ He looked down at the bodies of Kharkov and Mossuth; then contemplated Dimitrinhov. ‘Except for this guy,’ he added, ‘the members of the Council of Ten are all dead, while their followers have either been killed or captured. No; I forgot – there’s Grote!’

‘He’s dead also,’ Wallace told him. ‘Ulyanov killed him. I am sorry, for Grote tried to be decent. Is Ulyanov dead?’

‘As dead as mutton. I feel glad I put that bullet into his devil brain – I guess it kinder soothes my feelings for that.’ He nodded at Sir Leonard’s chest.

‘All that stuff will enable us to give information that will clear the world entirely of the society,’ remarked Wallace, indicating the documents. ‘Somehow,’ he added with a smile, ‘Moscow will wriggle out of any responsibility, with their usual specious tales,
but they will have to mind their p’s and q’s for a long time – for a very long time.’