Get Wallace! (19 page)

Farrell heard the girl give an affirmative answer as he followed the others up the companionway. There was not room enough for them all in the dinghy, but one of the yacht’s boats had been lowered. The three members of the crew with Hepburn and Farrell, entered this, while Ibsen, Danson, and Villinoff went ashore in the other. Nothing was said until they were close to land; then Hepburn turned to his companion with something that sounded very much like a snarl.

‘To hell with your brilliant ideas,’ he growled. ‘I’m not liking this business at all.’

‘Why not?’ queried Farrell who, now that he had accomplished his mission satisfactorily, was full of jubilation.

‘That fellow Wallace is too damned cute. He must have spotted the deception when I impersonated his chauffeur, and he’s bound to know that I took in Cousins by getting myself up as Shannon. I doubt if it will work again. I tell you, I don’t like it. What if the real Shannon has arrived when we get there?’

‘I don’t think you need worry about that,’ returned Farrell, smiling to himself.

As the boats ran aground, they heard the staccato beat of a motor engine. The launch was leaving the side of the yacht, and Farrell knew the old man and Thalia were on their way to London. Other ears heard the sound also, and Sir Leonard Wallace, his glasses to his eyes, watched the motorboat swing round the island, and disappear from view. He could see that there were three or four people aboard but, of course, it was impossible to make out their features. There was no time for conjecture, however, Farrell and his companions were stepping ashore. Everything was ready for their reception.

They were allowed to walk for some distance unmolested, until they were out of sight of anyone on the yacht who might be following their progress with night glasses. Farrell, walking ahead, began to wonder where Sir Leonard’s party was. Suddenly, however, as he was making his way through a particularly dense section of the underwood, figures rose on all sides. Hepburn and company were completely taken by surprise. Before they could lift a hand to defend themselves, or even raise a cry, they were struck down, the revolvers of the Secret Service men, deftly wielded by the barrels, laying them low. Only one, Ibsen the Swede, retained his senses, Cartright overshooting his mark, and hitting him upon the top of the head, protected by his cap, instead of just above and a little
behind the ear. However, he was too dazed to raise an outcry, and sank to the ground holding his head between his hands. Farrell looked round at the dark forms strewn out behind him. The suddenness and celerity of it all rather stupefied him for the moment. Rapidly and quietly the seven men were bound with portions of the rope Carter had brought from the car, and gagged with their own handkerchiefs or scarves. Sir Leonard walked up to Farrell, and patted him on the back.

‘Good work!’ was all he said, but the ex-pugilist felt immensely gratified.

‘What’s the idea of giving them the KO, sir?’ he asked.

‘To keep them quiet,’ was the reply. ‘If we had merely held them up, and disarmed them, there would probably have been a certain amount of noise which might have been heard on the boat, and cause an alarm. Who are on board?’

‘There’s Ictinos, the skipper, two ship’s officers, and about seven sailors. There was an old man there also, and Miss Thalia, but I heard them say they were going to London. I suppose that was the motorboat taking them away just as we landed.’

‘Yes; I saw it. An old man did you say? What was he like?’

Farrell gave a careful description of him, adding that he believed he was the man whom Ictinos had spoken of as his partner. Wallace was deeply interested.

‘Do you know if he took anything with him?’ he asked with unwonted eagerness for him.

Farrell told him of the documents that had been taken from the safe, which the old man had put in his pocket. Sir Leonard turned with an exclamation of annoyance to Major Brien who had joined them, and was standing by his side listening.

‘The French plans for a bet, Bill,’ he commented. ‘Apparently
our work won’t be completed tonight after all. It’s a pity we couldn’t have got aboard before that fellow left.’

‘How are you going to find out where he’s gone?’

‘I think I know,’ was the quiet reply.

‘Come to think of it, sir,’ put in Farrell, ‘there can only be about five men on board now besides the three officers and Ictinos. There are three sailors here, and two, at least, must have gone with the launch. I heard the guv’nor mention that there were ten in all.’

‘The yacht generally carries a crew of twenty. You’re sure of your figures?’

‘I’m going on what the guv’nor said. He’s not likely to be mistaken.’

‘Well, we’ll say we have about nine or ten men to deal with. I suppose there is a cook, and probably a steward. Let’s have a look at this lot.’

Carefully shielding his tiny torch, Wallace went from one prone man to another, flashing a ray of light on each. The sailors he passed without comment, but stood longer over the four crooks, inspecting them with interest, as Farrell mentioned their names. When they came to Hepburn, Brien gave vent to an exclamation of astonishment.

‘Good Lord!’ he cried. ‘Shannon to the life. Hugh,’ he called, ‘where are you?’

‘Here, sir,’ came from some yards away.

‘Come, and see yourself.’

Shannon strode up, and gazed silently at the unconscious counterfeit of himself lying at his feet.

‘Heavens!’ was his only comment, ‘am I like that?’

‘The Corsican brothers,’ observed Cousin, joining the group. ‘You note that his shoulders are not quite so hefty as yours,
Hugh.’ He bent down, and took hold of one. ‘Padded, you see,’ he remarked, as he shook it. ‘That’s how I knew it was not the real blue-eyed boy.’

‘Did you know before you were trapped?’ asked Farrell with interest.

‘I did, battered one.’

‘S’truth!’

‘Who’s this?’ asked Sir Leonard, shining the ray of his torch on the face of the fourth crook.

‘That’s Villinoff, sir, the fellow who was sent to Southampton to croak you.’

‘Oh, it is, is it?’ The gleam in Sir Leonard’s eye passed unnoticed in the darkness, but he was thinking of the action of a curly-headed little boy who had risked his own life to save his father from an assassin’s bullet. ‘It is a great pity,’ he murmured to himself, ‘that I cannot settle personally with you.’ Abruptly he turned away. ‘Seymour,’ he called, ‘here’s a choice collection for the Yard. All wanted for murder as well as other crimes riot perhaps quite so heinous.’

Inspector Seymour sighed a sigh of contentment and satisfaction. He regarded the prostrate quartet almost with eyes of affection, after which he transferred his attention to Farrell.

‘What about the bracelets?’ he demanded. ‘Want to keep them on?’

Farrell held up the wrist to which the handcuffs still hung, nodding to the one that had been filed through.

‘They tried to get them off,’ he explained.

‘One perfectly good pair of handcuffs gone west,’ groaned the inspector. ‘Oh, well, I suppose it was in a good cause.’

He unlocked and removed it, much to Farrell’s relief. Handcuffs
were not the sort of ornaments the latter would wear from choice. Sir Leonard stood a little apart talking in low tones to Brien. Presently he called the other Secret Service men round him.

‘Major Brien will come on the yacht with me,’ he announced, ‘as the other man supposedly captured by Hepburn and his gang of cut-throats, Shannon will, of course, go as Hepburn, and I think Farrell had better come too, so that he can answer any questions that may be asked before we ascend the gangway. Cousins, and Cartright, make yourselves resemble Ranson and Ibsen sufficiently to pass muster in an open boat in the moonlight – their caps should do. Once aboard it doesn’t matter what you look like. Seymour, Carter, and Hill, put on those seamen’s berets, and try to look as much like them as you can. Willingdon, and MacFarlane will stay and guard the prisoners. Hurry, all of you, it’s about time we started.’

The men were quickly ready. Shannon merely took Hepburn’s hat, the one he had been wearing being of a different colour. Their coats were identical in cut, material and length; there was no necessity, therefore, to change them. Sir Leonard, Brien, Farrell, and Shannon, rowed by Carter, and Hill, the latter with the borrowed berets pulled well down on their heads, left in the first boat. They were followed closely by Seymour, Cousins, and Cartright in the dinghy. It was only when they were halfway across that Farrell remembered what had been said concerning Johnson and the car. He told Sir Leonard, who promptly assured him that it did not matter. Their progress was undoubtedly being closely observed, for they were hailed as soon as they ran under the lee of the yacht. Shannon answered gruffly. Sir Leonard, and Brien, as prearranged, had their hands tied lightly behind their backs, a jerk being all that would be required to free them. The boat
glided alongside the gangway, and Farrell roughly ordered the two supposed prisoners to ascend.

‘So you have them,’ came the exultant voice of Ictinos.

‘Yes; we have them all right,’ called back Farrell, putting as much triumph as he could into his tones.

Sir Leonard, and Brien stepped on the deck of the disguised yacht, and found themselves face-to-face with Ictinos, and the bearded captain.

‘At last,’ boomed the former, ‘you are in my power, Sir Leonard. We have much to settle, is it not so? You will discover that it is dangerous to oppose Stanislaus Ictinos. Tonight you and I will conclude our little feud.’

Wallace bowed mockingly.

‘As you say,’ he agreed, ‘tonight we will conclude our little feud.’

Ictinos gave orders to Farrell, and the pretended Hepburn to bring the prisoners down to the saloon, and led the way, accompanied by the captain. Carter, and Hill, keeping well out of the moonlight, awaited the coming of their companions in the other boat. As soon as they were joined by Seymour, Cousins, and Cartright, the quintet proceeded quietly and methodically to seize the ship. They found an officer in his cabin writing a letter and, almost before the astonished man gathered that they were not friends, he was tied up, gagged, and deposited on his bunk. Another deck cabin contained a man busily engaged in restringing a mandolin. From various indications it was obvious that he was the engineer. He was quickly rendered helpless in the same manner as the navigating officer. Both cabin doors were locked, and they were left to their own, not very happy, reflections. Three seamen were discovered in their quarters in the fo’c’sle, and quickly overpowered; another in the lamp room suffered the
same fate; a fourth was found in the galley with a cook. There they met with a certain amount of resistance, due to the fact that Seymour, before entering, had bumped against a stanchion, and expressed his feelings with a typically British oath. Both men showed fight, but a full-blooded uppercut from Carter quickly laid the sailor low; the cook, however, a saucepan in one hand, a carving knife in the other, strove desperately to keep them off. Eventually he was pummelled into unconsciousness, though not before a considerable amount of noise had been created. Nobody appeared from the saloon to find out the cause of the disturbance, and thereafter the five men distributed themselves about the deck, keeping watch until Sir Leonard came up, or they were summoned below. They had satisfied themselves that everybody in the ship was accounted for apart from the men in the saloon.

Wallace and Brien gazed round them with an air of approval as Farrell and Shannon pushed them into the beautifully furnished apartment, that looked more like a lady’s boudoir than the saloon of a ship, even though that ship was a privately owned pleasure yacht. Costly tapestries and exquisite little etchings adorned the walls of fumed oak; silken curtains of a delicate tint of blue hung before the doors and portholes, a wonderful carpet of the same colour, into which their feet sank ankle deep, covered the floor; the chairs and settees were upholstered in silk brocade of a slightly deeper shade of blue; the small, exquisitely carved tables, of which there were four, were covered by brocaded cloths of the same colour as the curtains.

‘Very nice,’ observed Sir Leonard.

Ictinos frowned a little. It would have pleased him better, if this man, whom he believed to be in his power, had shown alarm, or at least a measure of consternation. He made a mental promise
that, in a few minutes, he would give himself the satisfaction of witnessing the Englishman writhe in agony.

‘I am glad you like it,’ he replied mockingly.

He and the captain of the yacht sat down behind one of the tables. Without being invited, Wallace sank into another chair, his example being followed, a moment later, by Brien. Over them stood Farrell, and Shannon. Again Ictinos frowned.

‘You take things very coolly,’ he growled, ‘but I have no objection to your seeking comfort for the moment. Soon there will be no comfort, I promise you, Sir Leonard Wallace.’

‘What do you propose to do with us?’ asked Sir Leonard with an air of polite interest.

The Greek’s eyes flashed.

‘I am going to exact recompense from you,’ he declared emphatically, ‘for all you have caused me to lose; make you pay to the uttermost for the indignities you have put on me and the misfortunes you have caused me.’

‘Oh! And how are you going to do that?’

‘You will see.’ He turned to Brien. ‘I was not anticipating a triumph, which would bring into my power the redoubtable Major Brien’ – he pronounced it ‘Brion’ – ‘as well as the so-great Sir Leonard. So – great!’ he repeated with a deep laugh of contempt. ‘My friends, your fame is, after all, made like the egg-shell – it is not solid. You think you are so wonderful, yet you are deceived by a clever actor, who can make himself exactly like one of your own men. Look at him! Is his impersonation of your Shannon not perfect in every respect?’ He pointed to the powerful man standing behind Brien’s chair. ‘Even I, who have seen it before, marvel. To me it looks more complete than ever.’

‘It certainly is excellent,’ commented Sir Leonard, turning, and
winking slightly at his assistant, who bit his underlip as though to suppress a smile. ‘In fact,’ went on Wallace, ‘he looks more like Shannon than anybody but Shannon could look.’

‘What do you mean?’ demanded Ictinos. ‘Levity will not help you to escape from the fate in store for you.’

‘Well, what is that fate?’ queried Sir Leonard.

‘Presently you will be taken on deck; you will be gagged so that you cannot make any outcry. The ship will sail. Then you will be hanged from a mast by your ankles. If, when dawn breaks, you are not dead, you will be hanged by your neck, so that you will then quickly expire.’

‘You brute! You inhuman brute!’ burst from between Brien’s clenched teeth.

‘As for you, Major, I will not be quite so severe – you will be stabbed, yes! A little pain, a little blood, and it is all over.’

As he spoke he was looking at his captives; he did not notice the expression on Shannon’s face, but the captain did, and it troubled him. He spoke rapidly to Ictinos in Greek. A threatening frown overshadowed the latter’s countenance, as he darted a look at his supposed underling.

‘Why is it you glare like that?’ he demanded. ‘Do you object to my programme?’

With an effort Shannon controlled himself.

‘I object to cruelty,’ he remarked quietly.

‘Ah, bah! Who are you to talk of cruelty? And why do you speak in that voice now? The play is over. You are no longer Shannon.’

‘He
is
Shannon,’ came in quiet tones from Sir Leonard. ‘It is you who have been deceived, Stanislaus Ictinos.’

He rose and, at the same time, slipped his hands from the cord that had apparently bound them. Brien immediately stood by his
side, his own hands freed. For a few seconds Ictinos was too amazed to make a movement. Those slate-blue eyes of his, registering incredulity and horror, almost bulged from his head. The captain uttered a gasp, and shrank back in his chair, his face as pale as death. Then, with a mighty roar, Ictinos was on his feet, glaring murder at the men standing opposite him. But he dare make no move; he was outnumbered, and they now held revolvers in their hands; all, that is, except Farrell, who had shrunk back a little, watching the scene with fascinated eyes. A pregnant silence, almost overpowering in its deadliness, reigned in the saloon for several moments. Glancing at the skipper, Wallace decided that he would be no trouble. The man was a mere catspaw; was overwhelmed by the manner in which the tables had been turned. Ictinos looked Shannon up and down, and presently he spoke, the words coming from him as though they were being drawn out.

‘It is true?’ he asked. ‘You are not Hepburn?’

‘No,’ replied Shannon; ‘I am certainly not Hepburn. He and the other cut-throats you employed are ashore in the hands of the police.’

‘Then who was it came on board – with you?’

‘They were my men,’ Wallace told him. ‘The ship is, by this time, in their hands. It is no use thinking of resisting, Ictinos. You are my prisoner.’

Abruptly, with terrible ferocity, the Greek turned on Farrell.

‘You betrayed me!’ he roared. ‘It was all lies the story you told. Fool that I was to believe you. May you rot in the deepest hell, you – you—’ He used a word that would not be countenanced by the Patriarch or the Holy Synod of the Orthodox Greek Church.

‘Enough of this!’ snapped Sir Leonard. ‘Call Seymour down, Shannon, and let this fellow be handcuffed. It’ll be a police job.
Hardly worth pulling him in under the Official Secrets Act, when there are at least two charges of murder, and several of incitement to murder, against him.’

Suddenly, with a despairing sort of effort, the yacht’s captain made a dash for the door near which he stood. Sir Leonard’s revolver spoke once and, with a groan, the sailor crashed to the floor.

‘Smashed knee cap,’ commented Wallace; ‘damn silly to try and get away like that.’

But abruptly the saloon was plunged into darkness. Ictinos had taken advantage of the diversion caused by the skipper’s action, the switches of the lights being close behind him. There was a choking cry, a heavy form collided with Wallace, sending him staggering across the saloon, and the pounding of racing feet could be heard receding in the distance. Sir Leonard groped his way across to the switches, and once again the room was brilliantly lit. He cast a hurried glance round. Close by lay the captain groaning with pain; on the other side Farrell was lying on his face, his legs drawn up as though in the throes of agony. The haft of a knife showed in the middle of his back. Apparently bent on vengeance, Ictinos had flung himself on Farrell as soon as the lights were out, stabbed him, and bolted along an alleyway to the left of the saloon. Shannon and Brien had gone after him.

Wallace bent down, and examined the ex-pugilist. The man was still breathing and, from the position of the wound, he judged there was just a chance that his life might be saved. Hurrying out of the saloon, he ran up the companion-way, and called. His men came to him immediately. They had heard the shot, and had been standing by in expectation of being required. Sir Leonard sent Hill down to attend to Farrell, with Cousins to assist him. Hill
had qualified as a doctor, before patriotism, first class detective instincts, and a spirit of adventure had taken him into the Secret Service. Directly they had gone below, Wallace dispatched the other three to help search for Ictinos, he himself running along the alleyway that the Greek had taken.

He passed several cabins, glancing perfunctorily in each as he went by, but knowing full well that the gorilla-man would not have attempted to take refuge in any of them. Almost subconsciously he was aware that all the cabins and the alleyway were brilliantly illumined, and the reason why no light had been discernible from the shore dawned on him. The whole of the yacht’s hull had been covered by canvas or, more probably, wooden casing. He resolved to investigate later on. At the end of the passage he came to a small smoking room on the far side of which was a companion-way. He ascended this, emerging on deck close to the stern. There he paused a moment, wondering which way to turn. As he stood hesitant Seymour dashed up.

‘He’s on the bridge, sir,’ he cried. ‘Captain Shannon and Major Brien have got him.’

His statement turned out to be somewhat premature. They ran towards the bridge, and quickly caught sight of three forms struggling desperately on the starboard side. Suddenly one tore himself loose, and sprang into the sea. Wallace hurried to the rail, and glanced down. At first he could see nothing, but, after a few moments, caught sight of a head. Ictinos was swimming strongly for the little island. Shannon, too, had glimpsed him from the bridge and, throwing off his overcoat and shoes, dived in without hesitation after him. Sir Leonard fingered his revolver. To him Ictinos was an easy mark, even in the deceptive light of the moon, but he could not bring himself to shoot a defenceless man,
though the latter had lost all right to considerations of humanity and mercy. Shannon was a powerful swimmer, and it was quickly evident that he was rapidly gaining on the Greek. Wallace ran to the gangway on the port side.

‘Brien, Seymour, Carter,’ he called, ‘come with me. Cartright stay on watch here.’

He tore down the gangway, followed by the three men. Tumbling into one of the boats, they cast off, Seymour and Carter taking the oars. Once round the yacht’s bows they headed for the island, making rapid progress. Nothing could be seen of the Greek and his pursuer for some minutes; then Brien caught sight of them close inshore, pointing them out to his companions. As they looked, the Greek was seen to scramble up the shelving bank, but Shannon was close behind him. They disappeared out of the moonlight into the darkness caused by the shadow of a group of trees. Three minutes later the boat touched bottom, and Wallace and his party sprang ashore. Seymour remained behind, while the others hastened towards the spot where Ictinos and Shannon had disappeared.

When they drew near, the laboured breathing of men locked together in mortal combat could be heard, and presently, from the shadows, rolled the two, wrestling desperately. The onlookers stood spellbound, watching fascinated, hardly daring to breathe. The combatants, each struggling frantically to get the upper hand, were never in the same position for more than a second or two at a time. There was something terrifying about the contest, one felt that both men had resolved to fight until one of them was dead. With the pale rays of the moon throwing a ghostly light upon the scene, a more uncanny spectacle could hardly be imagined. The great arms of the Greek, thrown round his opponent, were being
exerted to the full in an effort to crush him. Shannon had one hand under his antagonist’s massive jaw, pushing his head back, the other was locked round his neck. Their legs were entwined in a hold that no ordinary means could have broken. Minutes went by without either one or the other gaining the slightest advantage, but the mighty Greek had found his match. Never before had he met any man who could stand up to him, but in Shannon he was opposed to an individual whose strength was a by-word in the circles in which he moved. Inch by inch the Greek’s head began to go back before that terrific pressure, until, at last, with a deep bellow of agony, he was forced to release his grip on his antagonist’s body. For a fraction of a second they lay as though taking a rest, but suddenly Ictinos managed to bend his knee, and drive it with sickening force into Shannon’s abdomen. With a suppressed groan the latter rolled over, momentarily winded. The Greek staggered to his feet, gathered himself together, and threw himself at the disabled man. Shannon, however, saw what was coming; succeeded, barely in time, in twisting aside, causing Ictinos to miss his grip. Then the Englishman rose slowly; braced himself. He was rapidly recovering from the blow in his stomach, and was doing his utmost to avoid the other until his strength returned. But Ictinos was up again now. For a moment or two they stood eyeing each other, the perspiration, despite the bitter cold of the night, pouring in streams down their faces.