Wallace at Bay (8 page)

The Secret Service man waited about in the vicinity for a few minutes longer, after which he walked into the hotel, and, obtaining his key from a stout lady sitting at the desk – he presumed she was
Mrs Fellowes – who eyed him coldly, ascended to his bedroom. He undressed and got into bed, but had no desire for sleep. He filled and lit his pipe; then lay puffing contentedly, while he reviewed the events of the day, dwelling particularly on the arrival of Modjeska’s friend, and the great interest Wilmer Hawthorne seemed to be taking in both of them. An hour went by, a clock in the neighbourhood struck eleven and still he was wide awake. Suddenly came a soft tap on the door. Carter was surprised and a little startled. His hand involuntarily sought the revolver under his bolster.

‘Come in,’ he called – the door was not locked. Unlike most hotel doors, none of those in the Canute were self-locking.

Immediately Modjeska entered, a finger raised to his lips to enjoin silence. Carter sat up, wondering what such a visitation could portend. Remembering his role, he set his face in a scowl. The Pole softly closed the door and locked it. That done, he walked quietly to the bed, and sat on the end.

‘Here ve can talk,’ he remarked, ‘vith the perfect safety. The room next to this vone is empty, and it is the same vith the vone opposite. Ve vill not be overheard.’

‘What do you mean by coming into my room like this?’ demanded Carter. ‘What do you want?’

‘Do not be angry, my friend, but listen to me. Today you told me no vone vanted to be kind to you, and I answer that it vould be a pleasure for me to repair the so-sad omission – yes?’

‘You did say something to that effect,’ agreed Carter in grudging tones. ‘What about it?’

‘Also I visper to you I might be able to get you a job in vich your hatred of kings and governments vould be of mooch use – vas it not so?’

Carter decided that the time had come for him to drop a little of his sullenness and show interest. The piercing eyes of the Pole were watching him closely – it would not do to show too much eagerness all at once. The Englishman’s face registered an expression in which curiosity and suspicion were equally blended.

‘What are you getting at?’ he asked.

‘I vill tell you. First I must say that I am so sorry you feel insulted that I offer you money for the drink. I did not mean to insult you. To me you vere kind – it vas right that I offer you the drink. You forgive me – yes?’

‘That’s all right,’ grunted Carter. ‘Get on with what you came to tell me.’

‘Vell listen, my friend. I am going to tell you mooch that vill surprise you. Listen to me with care of the greatest. I am a member of a most great society vich for its object vishes that in this vorld should be no kings or families vith vat is called royal blood.’

Carter’s eyes opened wide, he glanced round uneasily. Modjeska noticed his apparent disquietude, smiled approvingly.

‘There is nothing to fear,’ he assured the man in the bed. ‘Ve are unheard, and no vone have seen me come here. Besides every vone think I am the man who loves mooch the kings and crowns. After dinner I sit in the lounge vith those so-great fools and ve talk vith mooch sorrow of you. I say it is peety and mooch to be regretted, for I have such big respeck for the King of England. They all say I am fine fellow – the big fools.’ He laughed at the recollection.

‘If you are in sympathy with my sentiments,’ growled Carter, ‘why did you want to make it appear otherwise?’

‘Because, my friend, it is not good that anyone think I am – vat I am. You are too hothead. You are too mooch John Blunt. If you speak not of hating kings and governments and
say nothing of revolution, you can do very mooch more for the cause. Understand?’

‘Why are you telling me this? How do you know I won’t give you away?’

Modjeska laughed again softly.

‘Because I am judge of the face. It is not vat you say that convince me but the light in your eye, the look in your face. It speak of your feelings too mooch. It is good for me to read, but is not good for other people. You must learn not to be so hothead, and to hide vat you think. Anyvone can see at vonce you are communist of the most fanatic, if he is not fool.’ Carter did not exactly feel flattered, but he was certainly delighted to find that Modjeska was so convinced of his bona fides that he did not hesitate to talk openly to him. ‘I know,’ went on the Pole, ‘that you vill, therefore, not betray me. But think a leetle. Even if I am wrong, vat could you do? Everyvone think me a lover of kings, everyvone know you hate them. If you say I am member of society that vishes to vash out all royal families everyvone vould laugh at you. There is no proof, not even a leetle bit. In my country I am mooch respeck – I am important man and good citizen. Nobody know I am member of the society but my comrades and now you. But you vill not give me avay – I have study you too vell, my friend.’

‘All right,’ nodded Carter, ‘we will take that for granted. Go on.’

‘Ah! You are eager to hear more. Vell, listen! I say perhaps I can get you job after your own heart. It is this: if my comrades approve you vill be appoint agent of the society in this country. Ve have none here, and it is necessary that there must be vone. Vat you say? Vould you like become member of the society? – Tell me!’

Carter’s face was a study in emotions. He would have probably been very successful as a dramatic actor. The sullenness had departed, leaving it alight with eagerness, though a shadow of distrust lurked still in the background.

‘You say that the object of this society is the abolition of all royal families,’ he commented. ‘How is it intended that this should be done?’  

Modjeska laughed, and Carter noticed for the first time how cruel his face could look.

‘There is only vone sure vay,’ he replied in tones that made the Englishman long to take him by the throat, and his hypnotic eyes bored into those of Carter as though endeavouring to search his very soul.

The latter succeeded in looking a thorough fanatic. His mouth half-opened, exposing the teeth, his nostrils dilated, a wicked-looking gleam came into his eyes.

‘Assassination!’ he breathed.

‘Exactly so, my friend,’ he returned, ‘assassination.’

For some minutes Carter lay back looking at the ceiling, the gloating expression on his face apparently giving great satisfaction to the Pole, who continued to nod his head and smile.

‘It vill take a very long time – oh, yes, a very long time. But ve are very powerful – vat is it you say? Ah! organeesation, is it not? – Ve are very powerful organeesation. Some of our comrades vill fail, and perhaps die in the cause, but others vill take their place. At the head are ten great men with mooch money and clever brains. Vat you say? You vish become member of this so-powerful society? You vill have very good pay and the vork you like.’

Carter sat up and, leaning forward, grasped the other by the
arm in a grip that hurt. But the Pole did not mind. He understood that it was caused by the deep emotion of the young Englishman.

‘Do you mean it?’ demanded Carter. ‘You are not fooling me? You are not leading me into a trap?’

‘My friend, there is no trap vich I am causing you to enter. If I vas English you might think that – you might think I vas of the police in disguise to deceive you. But you know vell I am not of your country. Vat objeck could I have, therefore? No; I am very mooch sincere. I think you vill be of great use, so I tell you all this. Look!’ He undid his shirt and vest at the neck and drew forth a silver disc on which was engraved a number and three letters. It was similar to those found suspended round the necks of the anarchists who had died in the house in Shirland Road. ‘All of the society vear these,’ Modjeska stated. ‘Ven you become a member, you vill vear vone also.’

‘What do the letters mean?’ asked Carter.

‘That you vill know if the committee of ten approve of you.’

‘When can I join?’

Modjeska laughed.

‘It is good to see eagerness so great,’ he declared. ‘Listen! In two, three days I vill return to the place vere ve have our headquarters. You vill go vith me, and to the ten I vill show you. They vill decide. But have no fears, my friend, that they vill not approve. In me have my comrades great trust – they know I am man of great judgement. And, in your ears I visper, Mr Carter, I am vone of those ten. Sleeping downstairs now is vone more. Today he comes from America, vere he has big business. He has come because it is necessary that all the ten meet together for consultation – one blunder has been made.’ Carter guessed he was referring to the Shirland Road affair. ‘Tomorrow, Mr Grote vill see you – I have
already told him about you, and he takes my vord for you. Ven you are seen by the others, I have no doubt they vill take my word also.’

Carter suddenly looked despondent.

‘I’m afraid I shall not be able to go with you,’ he remarked in disappointed tones. ‘I only have a little money, and that—’

‘Ah! Bah! Your expenses vill be paid of course. I vill arrange that matter.’

The Englishman’s eyes lit up.

‘That’s splendid,’ he cried. ‘Lord!’ he added vehemently. ‘To have the chance of striking one blow – just one blow at royalty.’

‘Such enthusiasm is good to see,’ smiled Modjeska, ‘but you must learn not to show so mooch your feelings. It is not vise.’

‘I’ll remember,’ promised Carter.

‘Good. I hope you vill for your own sake. Now, before I go, there is vone more thing I vish to say. Today my friend in Sheerland Road was out – tomorrow I go again to see him by the appointment at ten of the clock. Perhaps I finish my business quickly perhaps it take two, three more days. Until I go avay, speak not to me mooch in this hotel; I must pretend I am not approving of you like those other fools. Understand?’ Carter nodded. ‘Also I think, it vill be better that you do not travel vith me and Mr Grote ven ve depart. Ve vill meet you in Vienna. I vill buy your ticket, and tomorrow night vill come here at the same hour and give you instructions and money.’

‘Thanks,’ returned the now exuberant Carter. Modjeska pushed the silver disc out of sight, and stood up.

‘I think,’ he declared, ‘that you vill be a very most useful member of the society.’

‘Supposing,’ queried Carter, ‘that, by some chance, the other members of your committee do not approve of me – what then?’

‘Ah! Vat then!’ repeated Modjeska. ‘You vill come back to England and become discontent man again – no?’

But the manner in which he spoke and the cruel gleam in his weird eyes was quite enough assurance to Carter of what would happen if he were not accepted. He would never return!

It was a long time before sleep came to Tommy Carter that night. His mind was so full of the interview with Modjeska, and the manner in which the latter had been deceived in him, that he remained very wide awake indeed for two or three hours. He can be forgiven if he felt elated at the success which had attended him. In one day he had accomplished all and more than Sir Leonard Wallace had hoped he would achieve. His gratification was, it is true, slightly tempered by the reflection that possibly there was a trap somewhere, but, search as he would into every word that had been spoken or incident that had happened since he had arrived at the hotel, he was unable to find any reason whatsoever why Modjeska should regard him as a danger that must be removed. Although it seemed too good to be true, the Pole, he was convinced, was thoroughly hoodwinked, and to such an extent that he had
decided Carter was the very man to be useful to the society of which he had spoken. Even then he seemed to have acted with dangerous precipitation, but doubtless he was so convinced of the infallibility of his judgement of men, and the society was so anxious to have an agent in London, that the risk had, to his mind, been very small. Again, Carter would have to face rigid scrutiny from the other members of the committee of ten. If they were not entirely convinced that he was quite the individual Modjeska represented him to be, he would not only be rejected, but would be assassinated. He would not be permitted to return to England, possibly to divulge what he had learnt concerning the organisation. That was quite certain. The thought of being murdered in some remote part of the continent of Europe did not bother Carter, however. He knew that when he left England he would be closely followed by Sir Leonard Wallace and probably other members of the Secret Service as well.

He rose the next morning feeling very bright and cheery despite the little sleep he had had. He was still resolved to search Modjeska’s belongings, though the Pole had admitted so much to him that it seemed unnecessary. Still there was a possibility that he might find something of value. It would be a good idea, too, he thought to find out what was the number of the newcomer Grote’s room, and search that also. If the latter accompanied Modjeska on his visit to Shirland Road, he would be presented with a splendid opportunity to enter both bedrooms.

On entering the dining room for breakfast he was again subjected to a battery of hostile glances, but he took no notice whatever of his fellow guests. The sullen expression was again on
his face, though he had allowed it to appear less aggressive and discontented. Modjeska and Grote sat at a table in the opposite corner of the room. Carter noticed that the latter subjected him to several sharp glances; was doubtlessly weighing him up. He surreptitiously studied the man, finding him to be a big, beefy-looking person with small, piglike eyes, broad nose and loose mouth in a countenance that can only be described as bloated. Carter decided he was a German, though his name might have been common to half a dozen races. There was no sign of Hawthorne, his absence supporting the view Carter had already formed that he was known to Grote and wished to avoid recognition.

After breakfast the Secret Service man planted himself in a corner of the lounge with some of the papers that had caused such a commotion the day before. He noticed with amusement that the Curzons, Spedding and Miss Simpson entered with the object, no doubt, of sitting there, but, on seeing him, departed again. He wondered if anybody else had ever made himself so thoroughly unpopular in such a short space of time. Modjeska and Grote came in and sat down for a little while within a few yards of him. The lounge then being occupied by the three only, Modjeska took the opportunity of whispering an introduction. Carter half rose, but the other motioned to him to resume his seat.

‘It is best you stay vere you are,’ he murmured, ‘in case anybody come in. Ve must not be seen talking to you like friends.’

Grote smiled, and Carter thought he preferred him without such a grimace. It caused him to look more brutal and uglier than ever.

‘I am glad to make your acquaintance, Mr Carter,’ he remarked
in perfect English. ‘Ivan Modjeska has told me all about you, and I may say that I trust his judgement implicitly.’

‘He knows me vell, you see,’ put in the Pole with a self-satisfied smirk.

‘An agent of our great association is badly required in London,’ went on Grote, ‘and, if you are selected, you will find it a very good job, I assure you. But we require entire fidelity and obedience.’

‘You will get it,’ returned Carter. ‘You can trust me for that.’

‘Splendid. I feel already I am in agreement with my friend Modjeska about you.’

‘Thanks.’

They ignored him after that, and Carter took up his papers again. Before long they went out, Grote nodding to him as they passed by.

‘Tonight at eleven you vill expect me – yes?’ asked Modjeska.

‘I will be waiting. Don’t knock. Come right in. The door won’t be locked.’

Carter sat on until long after half past ten; then walked along to the office. Just outside hung a railway advertisement. Pretending to study this, he managed to glance at the open visitors’ book close by. Grote’s name was the last, and the number of his chamber nine. Satisfied, he ascended to his room. On the way up he had met no one. The doors of all the bedrooms were shut, which was fairly good evidence that the chambermaids had finished their work. They invariably leave doors open while engaged in tidying rooms. Of course one or more of the guests may have been inside, but Carter decided that it was unlikely. The weather was glorious, and it was hardly to be expected that people, the majority of whom were in London on pleasure, would be in their tiny bedrooms at eleven
o’clock on such a morning. In any case he would have to risk the sudden appearance of one of the inmates. After all, it would not be much risk – he could always pretend to be knocking on the door he was endeavouring to open. Grote had accompanied Modjeska. He had seen them go out.

He remained in his apartment for ten minutes or so; then descended to the floor beneath. Modjeska’s room, number ten, was exactly opposite number nine, which was a fortunate circumstance. No doubt Modjeska had arranged it in order that his friend would be conveniently close. Carter smiled at the thought that Modjeska had little realised that he was also making it more convenient for the Secret Service man’s investigations. He stood on the landing listening for a few seconds; then went swiftly along to number ten, a bunch of skeleton keys held ready in his hand. Nobody disturbed him, and in less than a minute he was inside the room, closing the door behind him. He wasted no time, but set to work at once to make his investigations. Although locked, Modjeska’s suitcases presented no difficulty to him at all. They were quickly lying open, while he examined the articles within with the greatest care, always noting the exact position in which each lay in order to replace it as he found it. There was absolutely nothing to associate the Pole with an anarchist organisation. Carter drew a complete blank. As a matter of fact he had not expected to find anything, though he had hoped that there might have been a letter or document, which would perhaps give some indication of the society’s headquarters. The cases were locked again, and pushed back under the bed where they had previously been lying. He then turned his attention to the rest of the room. A suit of clothes
and a dressing gown were hanging in the wardrobe, but the pockets were empty. There were some shirts, collars, and socks in the drawers of the dressing table, toilet articles on the top – nothing else. Carter gave one last look round to make certain that he was leaving no evidence of his presence about; then crossed to the door, and gently opened it. A cautious glance along the corridor assured him that he still had it to himself. He closed the door quietly behind him. Two or three minutes later he was safely inside Grote’s room.

The man from America had not troubled to unpack anything, apparently, except toilet articles and pyjamas. There was nothing in the wardrobe or the drawers. Carter found one suitcase difficult to open, but he managed it at last. To his surprise it was steel-lined; must have been very heavy. It contained bundles of American banknotes each of large denomination. After examining them, Carter calculated that there must have been at least three hundred thousand dollars in the bag. Was Grote leaving America for good, or was he carrying a contribution to the society’s funds from anarchists and communists in the United States? He was standing gazing down at the packages of notes when his whole body stiffened with consternation. Someone was inserting a key in the lock. As quick as thought Carter closed the case, pushed it under the bed and followed it himself, his revolver in his hand. There was no other hiding place in the room. The chances of his escaping detection were very small indeed, unless the person now opening the door happened to be a chambermaid. If it turned out to be Grote—! Carter almost groaned at the thought. All he had accomplished would be utterly thrown away, his efforts entirely wasted. Worse still, the anarchist
organisation would be warned that efforts were being made to unmask it.

The door closed softly. Carter saw a pair of neatly shod feet – a man’s. Grote must have returned, though the Englishman felt that the feet hardly seemed to suit him. They were too small, too elegant. He would have expected the anarchist to have possessed rather ugly extremities – his hands were large and coarse-looking, Carter had not noticed his feet. A hand appeared and, catching hold of the case the Secret Service agent had opened, commenced to pull it out. It was a white, well-shaped hand, with well-manicured nails – most certainly not Grote’s. Who on earth, wondered Carter, could the intruder be? He was quickly to learn. The second suitcase was dragged out; then a face appeared, eyes glancing under the bed. It was the face of Wilmer Peregrine Huckleberry Hawthorne.

‘Well, this sure is a surprise!’ exclaimed the American coolly. ‘Guess you’d better come out, young man.’

Carter saw no point in remaining where he was; he was at a very big disadvantage under the bed, even with a revolver in his hand. He obeyed the American’s command, therefore, crawled out, and rose to his feet. Immediately he discovered that Mr Hawthorne also possessed a weapon, the barrel of which he pushed into Carter’s ribs. For the life of him the latter could not forbear a broad grin. Hawthorne’s eyes widened behind their large glasses.

‘We both have revolvers,’ chuckled the Englishman, ‘but neither of us dare use them. I don’t particularly want to use mine.’

‘Guess you’re right,’ commented the American. ‘They’re no darn good here – we’d sure bring the whole block along, anxious to see the body. We can’t fight it out either, that would make almost as much noise. I kinder feel we’d better talk this thing out.’

‘I suppose we’d better,’ agreed Carter. ‘But this is hardly the place for a confidential chat, is it? We might be disturbed just when we were getting interested in each other.’

‘You’ve said it,’ nodded Mr Hawthorne. He put his revolver away, an action that was copied by the other. ‘Say,’ went on the American, ‘what’s happened to you? You sorter look different.’

‘How do you mean – different?’ asked Carter.

Mr Wilmer P. H. Hawthorne scratched his head. ‘You don’t look the same guy as the one I tried to talk to yesterday morning.’

‘I am he,’ returned Carter, but he knew what the difference was. He was no longer cloaked in a disguise of sullenness and gloom. Somehow he felt vastly relieved that the intruder had turned out to be the American. He felt instinctively that he had little to fear from Hawthorne. ‘Where shall we go?’

‘I guess my room would do for a little pow-wow. It’s sure quiet, and I can mix you a highball. A drink is indicated, I reckon. This surprise meeting with you has perturbed me some.’ Carter smiled again. Hawthorne looked the least disconcerted of mortals as he stood there regarding his companion. The Englishman bent down, and was about to lock the suitcase, when the other stayed him. ‘So you’ve already opened it!’ he commented. ‘You’ve a nice, handy, little instrument there. Guess I’d like to take a peek inside that case if you’ve no objection.’ Carter opened it without hesitation, and the American gazed at the contents silently for a few seconds. ‘Gee!’ he remarked presently. ‘He sure has made a nice little collection of plunks. All right, Mr Carter, shut it up.’

The Englishman locked the case; then pushing it, with the other, back under the bed, rose to his feet. Hawthorne went to the door, opened it slightly, and glanced out. The way was
clear, and he left the room, followed by Carter. The latter shut the door, making certain that it was properly fastened. The American led the way down the stairs, and walked to room number two on the first floor. He unlocked the door and stood aside for Carter to enter. The latter was surprised to find the apartment a good deal larger than his own. It was also better furnished, even boasting an armchair, and possessed two windows, which looked on to Waterloo Road, not that that was a very great asset. The view from Carter’s window, however, was distressingly bleak. A wilderness of drab walls, roofs, and chimney pots was his portion. Hawthorne opened the wardrobe, produced there from a bottle of John Haig, a soda siphon, and a glass. He mixed a drink for Carter according to the latter’s requirements.

‘What about yours?’ asked the Englishman, as he took the glass. ‘You want one more than I. You’re so perturbed you know.’

Hawthorne’s eyes twinkled as he looked at him.

‘I sure am,’ he replied. ‘Aren’t you?’

‘Not a bit.’

‘Well, I guess you oughter be.’ He crossed to the washstand, picked up the tooth glass, and examined it critically. Passing it as satisfactorily clean, he returned to Carter and poured himself out a liberal dose of whisky, splashing in a little soda. That done, he sat on the bed, indicating to Carter to take the armchair, an invitation promptly accepted by that young man. ‘Here’s how,’ remarked Hawthorne by way of a toast, and proceeded to reduce his drink to a negligible quantity. ‘Now,’ he observed, ‘I reckon it’s up to you to explain a few things, Mr Carter. It will kinder clear the air.’