Wallace Intervenes

A young man sat moodily in the comfortable depths of an easy chair of dark green leather, and gazed round him, from time to time, with an air of complete boredom. A newspaper and a couple of magazines lay on the floor at his feet, a tankard half-full of beer was on a table at his elbow. The large room, of which he was the only occupant, had the appearance of a flat in a West End Club. Sporting prints and pictures adorned the walls, which were distempered dark green, a colour which predominated, for the carpet, as well as the numerous armchairs, were also of that shade. At one end was a great bookcase packed tight with volumes; at the other a buffet. Several writing tables were placed at various intervals against the two remaining walls, in one of which was a large fireplace, now hidden by a screen, while each easy chair possessed as companion a small round table complete with ashtrays and matches. Undeniably a man’s room, it was snug and restful. There
was one peculiarity about it, however; it possessed no windows, being lighted day and night by several powerful though softly shaded electric globes. It was in fact underground, the basement of the drab building in Whitehall which, although so uninteresting to look at, is the home and headquarters of the British Secret Service. The rest room, generally known as the messroom, is reserved, as a rule, for the senior members of the department, but no objection is raised to its use by the half-dozen or so young fellows eager to make good in the exacting profession to which they have been appointed. Their selection, after the most exhaustive investigation into their antecedents and accomplishments, was considered all that was necessary to permit them the entry by the men whom Sir Leonard Wallace called his experts. They possessed their own room, but it was a small, not over-comfortable flat at the top of the building, and refreshments could not be obtained there.

Bernard Foster was one of the juniors engaged in the process of winning his spurs. The son of a famous soldier, he had passed from Shrewsbury School to Sandhurst, thence to the Guards. An extraordinary aptitude for languages, a daredevil temperament, and a spirit of adventure, however, had gained the interest of the Chief of the Secret Service, who had served under Foster’s father while in the Army, and knew the son well. Bernard was presented with an opportunity of which he eagerly availed himself. Yet for eighteen months now he had been occupied in minor and routine matters. He knew he was being carefully observed all the time, his ability and disposition judged from a fresh angle – Sir Leonard Wallace took no chances with his assistants; he did not put them in charge of any important undertakings until he was certain that mentally, physically and morally they were suitable for the big things. So much depends on the Secret Service man. He must learn absolutely that his own honour, his life, count for nothing.
He must be prepared to face desperate odds, danger, death, with the realisation that there is no reward except the abstract one which goes with success in the service of the country he loves. Failure and exposure invariably mean complete obliteration; he can expect no help from the authorities; no help can be accorded him. Governments cannot recognise secret agents. A little carelessness, a lack of forethought, an impulsive word or action, may cause disaster. Where the welfare and honour of Great Britain is likely to be intimately concerned, Sir Leonard, of necessity, is extremely careful in his choice of the man or men to act. In consequence there is bound to be a hard and uninteresting period of probation before a young officer can expect to be delegated to the important roles with their difficult, perilous but highly adventurous aura.

Foster realised this; nevertheless, he longed for the time to come when he would be adjudged fit to take his place in the great game with men like Shannon, Cousins, Carter, Cartwright, and Hill, who, with Maddison and, of course, Major Brien, the deputy chief, formed Sir Leonard Wallace’s little band of cracks. He had begun to fear that he was somehow not quite fulfilling expectations of him. Only that morning Willingdon, who had been appointed to the Intelligence Department at practically the same time as he, had been chosen for a mission of great importance. It was true that Willingdon had graduated to the Secret Service from the special Branch of New Scotland Yard, and had proved his capabilities on more than one occasion, but there were others. Downing, Cunningham and Reynolds had all been entrusted with work of a more exacting nature than any Foster had been instructed to undertake. It was no wonder he felt a trifle moody, therefore, when the thought would persist that he had failed in some manner to win the entire confidence of his chief.

He drained his tankard, and, rising to his feet, stood stretching himself. Bernard Foster was about the last person a casual observer would have imagined to be connected with the Intelligence Service. A little over six feet in height, he was lean with the healthy leanness of the physically fit athlete. A perfectly cut grey lounge suit rather suggested than hid the rippling muscles beneath. He had been a brilliant hurdler at school and Sandhurst had broken the records at the Royal Military College for the hundred yards and pole-vault and had equalled that of the two-twenty. In addition he was a very fine cricketer. Fair-haired and pale, he possessed a pair of sleepy blue eyes that gave him an air of bland innocence, an almost priceless asset in a man of his calling. A small, fair moustache adorning his upper lip helped to add to his ingenuous appearance, while a monocle which he frequently wore caused him to look thoroughly and completely guileless.

He was wondering what he should do to kill the time that was hanging so heavily on his hands, when a voice behind caused him to swing round. Confronting him was a small man with an extraordinarily wrinkled face and the figure of a boy. Everybody at headquarters was exceedingly fond of Gerald Cousins, perhaps Sir Leonard’s most brilliant assistant. Foster almost went to the extent of hero-worship. He had learnt a great deal from the little man, who was always ready to place the benefit of his experience at the disposal of those keen enough to profit from it. The clouds left Foster’s face immediately, a broad, cheerful smile replacing the gloom which had previously reigned there.

‘By Jove! I’m glad to see you,’ he exclaimed involuntarily. ‘I’ve been feeling as blue as Oxford after the boat race.’

‘Ah!’ ejaculated Cousins; ‘a joke methinks.’ He placed his head on one side rather in the manner of a bird, and studied the young man towering above him. ‘What’s making you feel blue?’

‘I’m eating out my heart for a job of work worthwhile. I have an uneasy feeling that the chief doesn’t think I’m good enough or something. It’s eighteen months since I joined the staff, and I’ve only been given jobs that any fool could have done.’

‘There are some things,’ returned Cousins, his eyes twinkling, ‘which only fools could do. But cheer up, my lad. Haven’t you learnt yet that the chief nurses those of whom he expects the most? At any rate, your time has come. I am just down from a conference with Sir Leonard and Major Brien, and my instructions are to send you up in ten minutes’ time.’

Foster’s eyes were no longer sleepy-looking. Open now to their widest extent, they positively blazed with excitement.

‘What is it?’ he demanded. ‘What am I expected to do?’

‘You’ll be told by the chief. What have you been drinking – beer? Something light in the way of wine appeals to me most this sunny June morning. Where is Gibbons?’

‘I don’t know. He went out after drawing my beer for me. But, Jerry, can’t you give me a hint? I’m in a state of – of—’

‘Electrification,’ supplied the other. ‘I can see that. Never mind, you have only seven minutes, thirty-three seconds to wait. Gibbons!’ he shouted.

A deep voice responded and, in a few seconds, a broad-shouldered, grey-haired man, whose luxuriant moustache and bushy eyebrows still remained their natural brown, hurried into the room carrying several bottles in his arms. He was an ex-sergeant of Artillery who, with a retired policeman, both of exemplary characters, looked after the fitful comfort of the men of the Secret Service.

‘I’ve been getting up some wine, sir,’ he explained apologetically.

‘You must have known I was coming,’ commented Cousins. ‘“Come, let us drink the Vintner’s good health. ’Tis the cask, not the
coffer, that holds the true wealth.” How about forsaking beer for a glass of Moselle, Foster?’

The ex-guardsman shook his head.

‘I want nothing more just now, thanks,’ he responded. Cousins’ face creased into a broad smile until every wrinkle seemed to contain a happy little grin of its own.

‘“There is a tide in the affairs of man,”’ he quoted, ‘“which taken at the flood leads on to fortune.” Go to it Foster, and good fortune go with you.’

Feeling a sense of thrill throughout his whole being, Foster ascended to the floor whereon was situated the office of Sir Leonard Wallace. He stood for some moments outside the door attempting to gain complete control of himself, for the summons and Cousins’ remark that his time had come had filled him with such exultation that he was rather afraid he might make a fool of himself in his delight. However, nothing was more unlikely. The Secret Service training teaches a man to hide completely his feelings if necessary, and Foster had learnt his lesson very well. There was no sound from within the room, which was hardly to be wondered at, as it was soundproof. He knocked loudly. Almost at once the door was opened by Major Brien, who greeted him with a friendly by smile, and bade him enter. Sir Leonard Wallace sat at his desk, his favourite briar held firmly between his strong white teeth. His steel-grey eyes bored deeply into those of Foster as that young man approached. Apparently satisfied with his scrutiny, Sir Leonard nodded his head slightly, and smiled.

‘Cousins has told you that I have decided to give you a job of very great importance?’ he stated rather than asked.

‘Not exactly, sir,’ was the reply. ‘He told me you wished to see
me, and certainly gave me to understand that the time I have been longing for has come at last.’

‘You are keen to show us what you can really do?’

‘Keen sir!’ repeated Foster. ‘I have thought of nothing else since I joined the service.’

‘Very well, your chance has come. Sit down.’

Foster sat in the chair indicated, but declined the cigarette offered him. He was far too interested and inwardly excited to bother about smoking. Brien drew an armchair up to the other side of the great desk; threw himself into it. The manner of the two, particularly that of Sir Leonard, might have greatly disappointed a man who had not had Foster’s opportunities of observing them. There was no indication in the demeanour of Wallace that he was concerned with anything but the most casual and unimportant matter. His unruffled, easy-going, unexcitable temperament, his air of complete nonchalance, had at one time deceived Foster as it had done so many others, but he had learnt, like those who worked with the chief, to recognise the dynamic driving force behind the calm manner, the brilliant brain, the working of which was cloaked by that lazy, attractive smile. Sir Leonard tapped out the ashes of his pipe into a handy ashtray, sat back in his chair, and regarded Foster.

‘You get on very well with the ladies, don’t you?’ he asked surprisingly.

The young man started. Despite his efforts, his pale face coloured a trifle.

‘I – I suppose I do, sir,’ he returned slowly, ‘but I have never really considered the question.’

‘Well, I have,’ commented the chief dryly. ‘I have noticed that you attract them. Don’t think you have been spied upon for any ulterior purpose. It is all part of the observation it is necessary to
make of men who join the service, in order that I shall have full knowledge of them and how they are likely to fit in. You get along very well with young girls. I am wondering if you are likely to appear as attractive to a lady, who, though young and handsome, is also a widow and an experienced woman of the world. But that will be up to you, Foster. You will have to go out of your way to make yourself attractive to her, though that does not matter so much as the necessity for you to appear utterly infatuated with her. Ever been in love?’

‘Several times, sir.’

Wallace and Brien laughed.

‘Then you’ll know how to appear in love again,’ observed the former, ‘but for goodness’ sake don’t let the real thing worm its way in. The lady in question is decidedly handsome, as I have already mentioned; in fact,’ he glanced at Brien, ‘she’s reputed to be beautiful, isn’t she?’

His second-in-command nodded.

‘I believe so,’ he replied. ‘I haven’t seen her, but she is certainly spoken of as one of the most beautiful women in Germany.’

‘Who is she, sir?’ ventured Foster.

‘The Baroness von Reudath,’ Sir Leonard told him. ‘Now listen carefully to me, Foster. I have been watching your work and weighing you up for a long time, and am quite satisfied that you have the making of a very good Secret Service man in you. Quite candidly, though, I did not anticipate starting you off on independent work with an affair of such great importance. It happens, however, that the German secret police are very much on the
qui vive
these days. Every man who enters Germany is compelled to undergo a rigid scrutiny and investigation into his antecedents. Under the circumstances, Major Brien and I came to the conclusion that we
would be taking a greater risk in entrusting the present project to one of the experienced, tried men than to you. Germany’s espionage department is excellent. It is quite likely men like Shannon, Cousins, Carter, and perhaps Hill and Cartwright, who have been forced into the unwanted limelight on occasions, are known. They can all disguise themselves well enough to defy detection, I know, and their credentials can be made entirely fool-proof. Still there is always the unexpected element to contend with, no matter what precautions may be taken. Something unforeseen may arise which would cause betrayal. Once that had happened our plans would be ruined. It would become next to impossible for any of our agents to get a footing in the household with which we are concerned. You know quite well the drastic measures concerning everything and everybody the Gestapo is apt to take once it smells a rat.’