Wallace at Bay (7 page)

He decided at length to wait until he knew more of the Pole’s habits, though he was reluctant, as he phrased it to himself, to let the grass grow under his feet. He put on his overcoat and hat, and descending the stairs strolled out, wandering round the unsalubrious neighbourhood for some time. There was a shop on Westminster Bridge Road where he knew he could purchase books and papers of a distinctly Bolshevik nature. Thither he wended his way before returning to the hotel for luncheon, purchasing several scurrilous journals which, at any other time, he would have been loath even to touch. Armed with these he returned, and planted himself in the lounge, until a cracked bell, and the clatter of plates and cutlery, announced that the meal was served.
He left his papers, titles upward, on the chair he had been occupying, and repaired to the dining room. Only four other guests besides himself turned up for lunch, but one of these was Modjeska. The man looked worried, and several times Carter caught him casting speculative eyes in his direction. He began to wonder if the Pole had grown suspicious, but reassured himself with the reflection that he had done nothing that could, in any way, have roused mistrust. Modjeska sat at the table which Hawthorne had occupied at breakfast. The American had not put in an appearance. They were halfway through the very indifferent meal when he leant over towards Carter.

‘Pardon,’ he remarked in careful but guttural English. ‘This London is very deeficult for the poor stranger. I cannot find my vay mooch. Perhaps you vill afterwards be kind and help me?’

Carter regarded him sullenly.

‘What do you want to know?’ he asked grudgingly.

‘Presently I vill tell you. It is a place I cannot find.’

‘Why don’t you ask a policeman? There are enough of them about.’

Modjeska raised his hands.

‘Ah! I have asked many times, but always I go wrong. If perhaps you vill help I vill not go wrong.’

Carter grunted. Inwardly he felt a sense of triumph. Had his disparaging remark at the breakfast table regarding King and Country already roused Modjeska’s interest in him? It was more than he dared hope; in fact it put him more on his guard than ever, if possible. Afterwards they entered the lounge together. Carter apparently accompanying his companion
with great reluctance. He found the room deserted except for the maiden lady who was looking down at the papers he had left in his chair, a look of the utmost distaste on her face. As he approached she turned and eyed him more in sorrow than in anger.

‘Excuse me asking, young man,’ she observed, ‘but are these papers yours?’

‘They are,’ returned Carter, frowning at her.

‘Well, I suppose it is not my business, but I feel called upon to protest. It is disgraceful that such insidious literature should be brought into a respectable hotel.’

‘You seem to have been reading them yourself,’ sneered Carter.

Inwardly he felt elated. This was help from an unexpected quarter. Everything seemed to be conspiring on his behalf. He had not failed to notice the interest with which Modjeska had followed Miss Veronica Simpson’s biting remarks.

‘My attention was drawn to them as I was about to sit down,’ the lady said in reply to Carter’s remark. ‘I thought for a moment the papers belonged to the hotel and I was astounded. I shall feel called upon to complain to the landlord.’

‘Do, by all means,’ sneered Carter. ‘It is no business of yours what I read, or what my sentiments are.’

‘Are you really admitting,’ she demanded, ‘that your sympathies are with people who denounce royalty and religion?’

‘They certainly are,’ Carter told her emphatically. At that moment he gave a very good representation of a fanatical communist. ‘Who wants puppets with crowns on their heads dancing round with pomp and ceremony, and all the time robbing the people of money which is rightfully theirs?’

‘Oh, you wicked young man!’ she cried, her eyes almost
starting from her head in horror. ‘How can you say such awful things? No wonder this gentleman – a foreigner too – is looking so upset.’ Modjeska shrugged his shoulders and slowly shook his head, sighing the while. ‘What must he think of you?’

‘Madame,’ put in the Pole, ‘the young have strange ideas, is it not so? This gentleman is very young and I think hotheaded, no?’

‘He is old enough to know better,’ she retorted, ‘but perhaps it is his upbringing. Poor boy! Poor boy!’

She stalked indignantly away, Carter watching her go with a scowl on his face. He threw himself into a chair. Modjeska sank into one close by.

‘It is perhaps, as I say,’ remarked the latter, ‘you are a leetle bit hothead.’

‘Look here,’ snarled Carter, ‘I’ve had quite enough from that old hag. I won’t stand any preaching from you – understand? Tell me what part of London you want to find, and I’ll help you, if I can. Afterwards I shall be glad if you will leave me to myself.’

A crafty smile appeared on Modjeska’s face.

‘I do not vish to preach to you,’ he declared softly; ‘Oh, no. It is perhaps that I have the sympathy vith your doctrine. Who can tell?’

Carter started; then regarded him fixedly for several seconds.

‘What do you mean exactly?’ he asked slowly.

‘Perhaps later I vill tell you. Now I ask you my question. There is a road vich I vant to reach. A friend of mine – his name I have forgot – lives there. The road is called Sheerland.’

By not so much as the twitch of an eyelid did Carter betray
the interest he felt. Of course Modjeska referred to Shirland Road, where his comrades had lost their lives.

‘Sheerland, Sheerland?’ repeated the young man in doubtful tones. ‘I’m afraid I don’t know any road of that name, but you must know more about it than that. What district is it in?’

‘Alvays I write on my letters to my friend the road name vith London and aftervards a letter and a figure. The letter W and the figure nine.’

Carter understood now why Modjeska had appealed to him. Unwilling to enquire too closely from a policeman about a road that had lately become so notorious, for fear of arousing suspicion, the Pole had not dared to show the address in writing. He had, therefore, in all probability done his best to find the place himself, thinking that there he would be most likely to obtain the information he required. Having heard Carter’s revolutionary remarks at the breakfast table, he had formed the opinion of that young man which it was intended he should form. The idea had occurred to him that here was one from whom he might ask for help without risk. He need not commit himself. Once again Carter felt a warm glow of admiration for the astute brain of his chief who had foreseen that such a situation would arise. No doubt the incident in which Miss Veronica Simpson had figured so prominently had done a great deal to cement the Pole’s opinion of his companion, and raise his confidence in him. Carter reflected that he was making progress.

‘Sheerland Road, W. nine,’ he repeated. ‘That should not be difficult to find. West nine is Maida Vale way I think.’

‘Ah! You know London vell?’

‘Fairly well. I spent a lot of time up here once. Why don’t you get into a taxi, and ask to be driven there?’

‘I have done it, but the so-stupid men say they know not of Sheerland Road.’

That was not to be wondered at, thought Carter, since the name was mispronounced, though London taxi drivers are generally cute enough to discover where their fares wish to go, no matter how they mispronounce names.

‘I’ll tell you what to do,’ advised Carter. ‘Go to Waterloo Underground Station and take a train by the Bakerloo line to Warwick Avenue or Maida Vale. Then you can ask. Someone will be sure to put you right – it is bound to be near either of those two stations.

Modjeska still looked doubtful. His companion could understand how he felt. Alone in London with the object of obtaining information, unable to ask outright for assistance, for fear of the risk he might incur by doing so, he was certainly in an unenviable position. To him Carter, with revolutionary doctrines akin to his own, must have appeared a regular godsend. The Secret Service man was now certain of one thing – that Casaroli had been the only agent of the anarchists in London. Since he was dead, Modjeska had no one to look to. It was rather a puzzle to know from whom he expected to obtain the information of which he was in search. Then Carter remembered the ice cream man living in the basement of the house in Shirland Road. No doubt Modjeska knew of his existence, and would go to him with some specious story, hoping thereby to learn a good deal about the raid. It was doubtful whether the Italian would possess the really important knowledge which the anarchist emissary wanted. He was not likely to be aware of the results, if any, of the police search, and obviously Modjeska’s greatest anxiety was to know if they had found anything that would lead them to
suspect the existence of a vast anarchist organisation. The Pole leant towards Carter.

‘Could you not take me to this Sheerland Road?’ he asked.

‘Don’t you think I have anything better to do than wander round London looking for obscure roads?’ returned the Englishman disagreeably.

‘It vill be a kindness that I vill mooch appreciate.’

‘Why should I do anyone a kindness? No one has ever bothered to be kind to me.’

‘Ah! Perhaps then I vill have the pleasure of repairing that so-sad omission.’

Carter laughed harshly.

‘You!’ he exclaimed. ‘I suppose you are saying that to get me to find this Sheerland Road of yours. Well, look here, Mr – I don’t know your name—’

‘It is Modjeska – Ivan Modjeska.’

‘Well, Mr Modjeska, let me tell you that I don’t want your help – see! I’ll assist you to get to Sheerland Road, if there is such a place. After that, I don’t want to have anything more to do with you. That’s plain, isn’t it?’

‘You grieve me, my friend. You are too vat you English call John Blunt, is it not? And for you I have conceive the liking.’ He leant forward again. ‘Vat vould you say if I told you that I might be able to get you a job in vich your hatred of kings and governments vould be of mooch use?’

Carter sat bolt upright. Had he deceived the Pole so completely and gained his trust so absolutely that he was about to take him into his confidence? It certainly looked like it. He glanced round uneasily towards the door, as though fearful that they might be overheard. They still had the lounge to themselves.

‘You mean—?’ he muttered, looking his companion full in the eyes.

‘Never mind what I mean – now,’ was the significant reply. ‘Afterwards ve vill talk – yes? Come now, ve vill find this Sheerland Road.’

Carter was on his guard more than ever now that Ivan Modjeska seemed to have accepted him as the discontented, sullen seditionist he appeared to be. They walked to the Underground station, and went by the Bakerloo line to Warwick Avenue. On the way the Pole asked his companion several searching questions concerning his family, his upbringing, what employment he had had and why he had lost it. To all Carter replied with apparent frankness, though still maintaining his sullen, resentful attitude. He had been prepared for such a catechism and had, therefore, no need to search for convincing answers. Stealing a glance at his companion, shortly before they reached their destination, Carter was gratified to observe that he wore a thoroughly pleased air, as though satisfied that, in the young man by his side, he had found an unexpected but very welcome associate.

On arrival at Warwick Avenue, Carter went across to a taxi rank outside the Underground station, and asked if there was a Sheerland Road in that neighbourhood. Two or three drivers, standing by their shelter gossiping, shook their heads; then one asked him if he meant Shirland Road. He turned to Modjeska; repeated the question.

‘Perhaps it may be so,’ replied the Pole. ‘It is spell S–ach–e–air–l–a–n–d.’

‘Blimey!’ commented the driver, ‘sounds like a foreign lingo to me.’

‘He means
S–H–I–R–L–A–N–D
, I think,’ corrected Carter.

‘Then that will be Shirland Road he wants. Go along till yer comes to Formosa Street – second turning on the left – then take the second to the right.’

True to the character he had assumed, Carter turned away without thanking the man, but Modjeska made ample amends. They walked on together until they turned into Shirland Road.

‘This is it,’ announced Carter briefly.

‘Ah! You have indeed been the friend in need. Now vill you go to a saloon and have a drink at my expense? Aftervards ve vill go back to the hotel.’

He held out some money to his companion. The latter scowled angrily.

‘I don’t want your money,’ he snarled. ‘If I want a drink I’ll pay for it myself. Anyhow it’s too late – the licensing laws make pubs close at certain hours in this free country. I’ve brought you here, you’ll be able to find your way back. I’m off.’

He strode away without another glance at Modjeska. The latter stood looking after him until he had turned the corner. There was a smile on his face, a light in his dark eyes. Modjeska decided at that
moment that he had found a most useful man to take the place of Casaroli. Carter had done his work well.

The Englishman allowed his features to relax once he was out of the Pole’s sight. He suddenly became his own cheerful self once more, and felt it a relief. Nature had certainly not intended that he should look gloomy or sullen. It had almost given him a physical pain to wear an expression of ill-natured sulkiness.

As he turned into Warwick Avenue, he glanced back more by habit than because of any thought that he might be followed. A tall, thin man was walking across the road from the direction of Bristol Gardens. There was something familiar about him. Carter suddenly whistled to himself. Was it Hawthorne, the American? It looked very much like him. He felt inclined to retrace his steps to make certain, for the man had disappeared along Shirland Road by then, but the possibility of being seen by Modjeska, and thus spoiling everything by rousing that worthy’s suspicions, restrained him. He walked on to the Underground station pondering deeply. Of course it may not have been Hawthorne at all, but Carter thought it was. At all events the American may have been in that district on business and his appearance at that moment a coincidence. But was it coincidence? Carter felt convinced it was not.

In the train on the run back to Waterloo he continued to cogitate on the circumstance. He felt it impossible to associate the clean, frank-looking American with anything so vile as anarchy. He impressed one as being so utterly straight, the type of man who could do nothing underhand. Yet it was unwise to trust to one’s impressions too much. Despite his appearance he may have been an associate of the anarchists. Directly he thought of that, however, Carter dismissed it from his mind. If he had been in any way a
confederate of Modjeska’s, the latter would not have needed Carter to take him to Shirland Road. Hawthorne, if indeed it were he, had apparently had no difficulty in finding his way there. Possibly he was of a curious turn of mind, and having read or heard of the tragic affair in Shirland Road, had gone, like so many hundreds of other people, to gaze at the house. That was a likely solution of Carter’s little problem; yet he was not satisfied.

On his return to the Canute Hotel he found most of the guests present. The lounge was uncomfortably packed. He walked in, and immediately there was a hush. All eyes were turned on him, their expressions being distinctly unfriendly. Miss Veronica Simpson sat bolt upright in the centre of the room – apparently she had been holding forth. She gave the impression of being president or chairman of a meeting; the meeting, Carter thought with great amusement, having been called to condemn him. He caught sight of the journals which had roused the indignation and ire of the spinster, lying in a heap on the floor. Deliberately he went towards them, bent down, and picked them up. He was about to leave the lounge when a grey-haired, wrinkled old man, apparently unable to control his feelings, sprang up from his chair; walked up to Carter, and glared at him.

‘Sir,’ he stormed, ‘we are all respectable people here, with a proper sense of duty and reverence to our country and the king. Your doctrines are obnoxious to us.’

‘So are yours to me,’ retorted Carter icily, ‘but I’m not ramming them down your throat, am I? I don’t care what you think. Why should you bother what I think?’

‘Because it is shameful that a man with a good old English name, and one who looks English, too, should think as you do. Why don’t you go elsewhere, where you can find others of your
own breed and relieve us of the disgrace of harbouring a man of Bolshevik ideas in our midst?’

‘Because I choose to stay here, where I have as much right as you.’

He turned on his heel, and walked out, followed by murmurs of opprobrium. He was passing the office, when the proprietor stepped out, his ruddy, good-humoured face now stern and a trifle perplexed.

‘Look here, Mr Carter,’ he remarked, ‘I don’t want to appear officious, but people have been complaining. I’m an old soldier, and loyal and patriotic I hope, but I don’t interfere with the sentiments of others, if they’re kept in bounds. You’ve got a grouse, and it’s turned you Bolshie. Well, be Bolshie if it pleases you, but keep your thoughts to yourself, and don’t offend others, if you don’t mind. Otherwise I’ll have to ask you to find a room elsewhere.’

‘All right,’ growled Carter. ‘I won’t say anything that’s likely to offend your milksops, if they will not attempt to preach to me.’

He went on up to his room; threw himself on to the bed. ‘Lord!’ he murmured. ‘What a little blue-eyed angel I have become!’

He did not go down to tea, a report he was writing taking a considerable time, but appeared for dinner. He was greeted with stony stares, but nobody addressed him. One woman, whom he passed closely, drew her skirts close to her figure as though afraid he might touch and contaminate them. Modjeska was sitting at his table again; there was still no sign of Wilmer Peregrine Huckleberry Hawthorne. The Pole had sensed the antagonism against Carter in the atmosphere, and had responded to it, deeming it best, no doubt, to seem in accord with the other guests. He eyed his table companion coldly, but when he knew he was unobserved, a friendly smile appeared fleetingly on his
lips. Carter made no attempt to speak to him, not even asking if he had found the friend he had gone to seek. It occurred to the Englishman that Modjeska had deliberately placed himself at his table in order to answer any question he might ask regarding his visit to Shirland Road. There would be little fear of being overheard when they were in such close proximity, while a question asked from one table to another would be bound to be heard. Modjeska naturally would not desire the other guests to know that he had any interest in a neighbourhood that had become as notorious as Shirland Road.

After dinner Carter went out for a stroll. He wandered about aimlessly for a time; then, when he felt certain he was not being followed by Modjeska, made his way by a circuitous route into Waterloo Station. He entered the buffet opposite platform number seven just as the hands of the clock pointed to the hour of nine. Lounging against the bar was the unmistakable figure of his colleague, Hill. Carter walked up to the bar and squeezed himself in between Hill and another man. The former turned languidly, and regarded him for a moment, but there was no sign of recognition in his jolly face.

Carter called for a whisky and soda. While the barmaid, with whom Hill had been chatting merrily, was away attending to his order, Carter placed his closed left hand on the counter close to Hill’s right which was already resting there. For a moment they touched; then the latter moved his hand away. He glanced at his watch.

‘Jove!’ he exclaimed to the girl, who had now returned. ‘I must be off. See you again tomorrow night about the same time, miss.’

She simpered, but Carter knew the last remark was intended for him. Hill raised his hat to the girl, and walked
quickly away. With him went Carter’s written report of the day’s events for Sir Leonard Wallace. The pseudo-communist turned and watched his friend’s departure with a slight smile on his lips; then, despite his self-control, he started. Outside, just about to pass behind a bookstall, was Wilmer P. H. Hawthorne!

Carter drank his whisky and soda very thoughtfully, his brain exceedingly busy. It could not be coincidence that the American had twice that day turned up under somewhat peculiar circumstances. The young Englishman began to believe that Hawthorne was watching him. If so, for what reason? Was it because of his supposed seditious doctrines? No; it could hardly be that. If the man with the extraordinary name had been British there might be a certain amount of reason in such a thought – he could be a detective whose suspicions of Carter had been roused by his utterances. But there was no mistaking the fact that Wilmer Hawthorne was a bona fide American. Carter decided that it might pay him to investigate the luggage of Hawthorne as well as that of Modjeska.

He drank his whisky and soda, and walked out on to the platform. There was no reason why he should not be open about it. Of one thing Carter was perfectly certain. That was that, whether the American was spying on him or not, the man could not possibly have any notion that he had had any communication with Hill, or that a letter had passed between them. Sir Leonard Wallace had been wise in advising that his messenger and Carter should not appear to know each other.

For several moments he was unable to find Hawthorne, and had begun to think that he had left the station, when he caught sight of him standing between a mail van and a taxicab in the
road that divides Waterloo Station into two parts. His back was towards Carter, and he appeared to be watching someone at the other end of the huge station. The Secret Service man became greatly interested. It was a certain relief to find that he was not, after all, the object of Hawthorne’s curiosity. He resolved to find out, if possible, who was. Approaching cautiously, he was able to get within a few yards of the American, and took up his station behind a platform ticket machine. At first he was unable to satisfy himself. Hawthorne might have been watching any one of a score of people. Then he saw Modjeska, and whistled softly to himself. The Pole was standing by the gates of platform number fourteen, as though awaiting the arrival of someone by train. Maddison had told Carter of Modjeska’s statement to the proprietor of the Canute Hotel that he had returned to England to meet a friend whom he had not seen for many years, who was due to arrive from the United States. It looked as though his announcement had been true. A boat train was due in from Southampton – Carter had casually noticed that fact when he had first entered the station. Things were certainly becoming intensely interesting.

Apparently Hawthorne knew of the expected arrival. Who was he? Carter wondered. He was certainly not the man he had represented himself to be. It had become evident that he was in England on less innocent business than one would suppose to be connected with steel cables. Suddenly Carter thought he saw light. Was he an American detective, who was on the trail of Modjeska’s friend, and knew that the two had arranged to meet in London? The idea opened up all kinds of possibilities. A friend of Modjeska would in all likelihood be an anarchist. Perhaps the man expected was the agent of the organisation in
the United States; had come to England for a consultation with Modjeska. It was strange that, if Hawthorne were a detective and was watching him, he had arrived in London several days ahead of him. Still that was capable of very simple explanation. Carter felt convinced that he was on the right track.

The boat train ran in, and immediately disgorged its load of humanity. The scene became very animated. Carter lost sight of Modjeska in the crowd of people pouring through the gate. Hawthorne approached closer, taking advantage of cover very expertly; the Englishman followed him with equal caution. Presently he saw the Pole again and at that moment the latter met and shook hands warmly with a tall, burly man who had passed through the gates followed by a porter carrying a couple of large suitcases. They stood talking for some minutes; then walked to the steps which descend to Waterloo Road. Hawthorne followed them, and Carter followed Hawthorne. At the bottom of the steps the bags were handed to an outside porter, and the party continued on its way, Modjeska and the stranger walking arm in arm. It became evident that they were bound for the Canute Hotel.

Hawthorne and Carter, from different coigns of vantage, watched them enter the drab-looking place. The American did not, at once, follow them in. He lounged about for nearly half an hour, before approaching the door and glancing cautiously in. Apparently satisfied, he then entered without any further attempt at secrecy, and went straight upstairs to his room. Carter gathered that Modjeska’s friend knew him, and that the American wished to avoid recognition.