Get Wallace! (6 page)

‘I see,’ murmured Damien. ‘I regret very much that the decision of my country is of so little help to Great Britain. It appears now that we are asking for much, but in return giving nothing. I am sorry.’

‘You forget, monsieur,’ returned Wallace, ‘that in endeavouring to save France from a great blow, we shall also be serving ourselves. It is necessary for us to obtain possession of the copies of the plans that have been stolen from us, and—’

‘Ah, yes, monsieur, that is true,’ interposed the Frenchman earnestly, ‘but what comparison can there be between certain secret details in the construction of a gun and an aeroplane being made public, and Germany being put in complete possession of all details concerning our frontier fortifications? The latter would probably mean tragedy and disaster for France, the former merely inconvenience to Britain. Even if France agrees to the demands of these blackmailers, and preserves her frontier secrets, she will be compelled to pay two hundred million francs. Think of it, gentlemen!’

‘In any case,’ observed the Foreign Secretary, ‘it is essential that this band should be broken up. With Europe in its present unsettled state, this general auctioning of national secrets must eventually mean serious trouble. It is bound to increase distrust and cause bitterness between the powers.’

‘Tell me, Monsieur Damien,’ solicited Wallace; ‘in what manner is your government expected to reply to this latest demand?’

‘If the money is not paid by January the fifteenth—’

‘Yes: I know that, but to whom is the reply to go? Another notification in
The Times
?’

Monsieur Damien nodded slowly.

‘That is so,’ he affirmed. ‘It is to appear no later than the twelfth, and must be worded thus: “France desires to preserve the peace of Europe.” Instructions – that is the word used, mind you; the
canaille
! – instructions will then be sent regarding the time and place for the exchange to be made.’

‘January the twelfth,’ commented the Foreign Secretary. ‘We have twenty-one days then.’

‘Twenty-one days to save two hundred million francs for France,’ put in Wallace, ‘but nothing like that to prevent our own stolen secrets from being sold to Russia or Germany. Negotiations may even now be proceeding.’ He rose from his chair. ‘For our own sake and for yours, Monsieur Damien,’ he declared, ‘you may rest assured that every effort will be made to break up this organisation, and obtain possession of all copies of French and English plans now apparently held by it.’

The Chief of the French Secret Service rose also, and bowed.

‘You will find France very grateful I assure you, monsieur,’ he proclaimed. For a moment he stood as though irresolute. ‘There is one thing more I have to beg of you,’ he added presently.

‘And that is?’

‘In the event of your proving successful, and documents of secret and vital importance to France falling into your hands, may I ask for your assurance that you will not divulge anything you read in them?’

‘I expected you to ask that,’ smiled Sir Leonard. ‘Will you, on your part, give me your word that there is nothing contained in them of a nature inimical or damaging to Great Britain, her
dominions or colonies, or to any country or person receiving the protection of Great Britain?’

‘Most assuredly, monsieur,’ returned the Frenchman at once. ‘Of our frontier fortifications you will gather that the plans and details cannot contain anything inimical to your country or its dependencies. With regard to the plans for offensive and defensive alliances, there is nothing in them which Britain can object to. Their publication at this time would be of great inconvenience, that is all. It may be necessary for you or your assistants to look through the documents to ascertain that they are the correct ones – you will thus be able to see for yourself that they are in no way damaging to your country. You have my word of honour, monsieur.’

‘Thank you,’ acknowledged Wallace. ‘I can promise with a clear conscience, therefore, that nothing seen by me, or anybody representing me, in the documents belonging to France will ever be divulged.’

He held out his hand which Monsieur Damien grasped warmly.

‘I go from here with joyful heart,’ he declared. ‘I feel already that France is saved.’

‘Don’t be too sanguine, monsieur,’ warned Sir Leonard. ‘I may fail.’

Damien smiled.

‘It has been said, and with great envy, by colleagues in my department,’ he confided, ‘that Sir Leonard Wallace never fails. Whenever you are in France, or passing through, it is a matter of the greatest concern, and I may add the gravest concern. You see, monsieur, I continue to be frank with you?’

‘That is why I am invariably shadowed I presume,’ commented Sir Leonard drily.

For a moment the Frenchman was nonplussed; then he smiled again.

‘Since you know, why should I deny it?’ he observed with a shrug of his shoulders; adding slyly: ‘In a way I suppose such vigilance is useless. If Sir Leonard Wallace did not want France to know he was on her shores, I am very much afraid France would not know.’

Shortly afterwards he took his leave, after thanking the Foreign Secretary for his courtesy in receiving him, and reiterating his gratitude to Sir Leonard Wallace. Although he was not aware of it, Monsieur Damien was shadowed all the way to Paris, a surveillance that did not relax until he actually entered the office of the French Minister for Foreign Affairs to make his report. Wallace was taking no chances. Although he had met him before, and was fairly certain that Monsieur Damien was in truth
the
Monsieur Damien, he had already had sufficient proof of the ability of certain individuals to impersonate others to cause him to take every precaution against a repetition of that sort of thing. He could not see what object a man could have in masquerading as the head of the French Secret Service, and obtaining an interview with him and the Foreign Secretary still, as he put it to himself, one never knew.

He remained for some time talking to the Foreign Secretary, during which the latter made a few well-meant but rather futile suggestions anent the manner in which it might be possible to checkmate the activities of the organisation that was playing ducks and drakes with the closely guarded secrets of France and Great Britain; not to mention Germany, and possibly other countries as well. The Foreign Secretary was too much of an aesthete and idealist to fit satisfactorily into his high office. He believed as much
in the League of Nations as Charles I had believed in the divine right of kings, and spent a considerable amount of his time in Lausanne and various capitals of Europe in consultations with foreign statesmen, which never came to anything. He was utterly unable to deal with the kind of situation that had now arisen, and was perfectly honest in his oft-repeated statement that he was relieved and glad that Sir Leonard Wallace was back in harness.

It was getting late when the latter left the Foreign Office, but he returned to his own department, where he shut himself up in his room, and remained for a considerable time in deep thought. He felt almost certain now that the organisation he was so anxious to destroy had its headquarters in reality in the neighbourhood of Sheerness. He had come to the conclusion that the posting of three of the letters from the naval port had been an oversight or a blunder. Of the two others, received by France, one had been dispatched from Southend, easily reached from the Isle of Sheppey by a boat – a fast motor launch for example – the other from London which was not a great distance away. At any rate it was at Sittingbourne, close to Sheerness, where Cousins had disappeared, and, whether there had been a mistake made in the posting of the letters or not, everything pointed to Sheppey as the spot where his investigations should commence. Having definitely made his plans, he sent for Maddison, and gave him certain explicit instructions. That keen-eyed individual listened attentively, made a few notes, and departed.

Big Ben was striking seven as Wallace left his office to find his car – for which he had telephoned ten minutes previously – drawn up to the kerb. The chauffeur – an ex-corporal of his own regiment whom he had engaged soon after the War, and who had been in his employ ever since – saluted him respectfully.

‘Have you enough petrol for a journey to Sittingbourne, Johnson?’ he asked.

‘No, sir,’ replied the man.

‘Drive me home; then fill up the tank. I shall want you to take me there after dinner. I’ll be ready about eight.’

‘Very well, sir.’

While he dined, alone with his wife, Sir Leonard told her that he would probably be away for the greater part of the night. She paled a little, but made no comment. The sigh which rose to her lips was stifled before it found expression. Promptly at eight Wallace, wrapped in a warm overcoat, a muffler round his neck, a soft hat pulled well over his eyes, entered his car, which, as soon as he had given the driver instructions to stop a hundred yards or so from Sittingbourne station, started on its journey. He lay back in the well-upholstered seat, lit his pipe, and gave himself up to reflection. The latter did not last very long, however. For some minutes Sir Leonard’s eyes had been fixed, at first casually, afterwards alertly, on his chauffeur’s back. The well-tuned car was running smoothly through Herne Hill when he chuckled softly to himself.

‘Really,’ he murmured, ‘these people depend a lot upon impersonation. But I wonder what they have done with Johnson!’

Cousins, sitting by the side of the man he had imagined to be Captain Hugh Shannon, had had no suspicion for some considerable time that he had fallen into a trap. The car was driven rapidly along the road leading to the bridge crossing over to the Isle of Sheppey, and the driver scarcely uttered a word. Cousins’ numerous questions either went unheeded or were replied to with grunts or in monosyllables. At length the little man had grown exasperated.

‘Look here, Hugh,’ he exclaimed, ‘this is ridiculous. We are alone in a car; there doesn’t appear to be a soul within miles of us; surely now is the time to spill the beans. Why all the mystery?’

‘You’ll know before long,’ grunted the other.

Something in the tone of voice caused Cousins to start. With a gasp he quickly turned his eyes on his companion, striving to pierce the darkness, examine the other’s features. But all he could
see was the dim outline of a face that certainly looked like that of Shannon. Yet he began to have doubts. The clever impersonation of the Air-Marshal and General Warrington recurred to his mind. Perhaps he had also been taken in. He had not had a perfect view of the man. Even when he had been standing under the lamp in the station, the latter’s face had been in shadow; nevertheless Cousins had seen it clearly enough not to be deceived; besides the figure, the voice, even the walk had been so typical, and he had known Shannon for years, had worked with him, been in daily, hourly contact with him. But the doubt persisted. He hardly knew what had caused it. And, like most doubts, it momentarily grew stronger.

It certainly was curious that Shannon should suddenly appear on the scene. Of course he may have been recalled, but, if so, surely Major Brien would have said something about it. Shannon may have returned of his own accord, bringing home information that could not be trusted to the usual channels, and incidentally have arrived in time to hear news which had reached Major Brien after Cousins had left him. News which it was important he, Cousins, should know. Shannon had been sent down by car to inform him; the man by his side had hinted as much. That seemed reasonable enough. Knowing that Cousins was not travelling down by train till late, but unaware of the actual time, the other had decided to meet the London trains. There another doubt assailed the little man. Surely, if this man was Shannon, he would have looked along the row of coaches, searching for his colleague, instead of standing aloof apparently taking no interest in the arrival of the train.

It was at this point in his reflections that the Secret Service man became certain that he had been trapped, that the man by his side
was an impostor. The other had hinted that it was unwise to be seen, yet had been standing under a lamp, showing himself off to anybody who cared to look in his direction. And the reason he had been standing in such an ostentatious position suddenly became obvious. Suspecting that a member of the Secret Service might appear in the neighbourhood to investigate, a man made-up like one of them – apparently the people he was in search of were well acquainted with certain of his companions – had been stationed on the platform of Sittingbourne station in the hope that the investigator would recognise him, thereby giving himself away. And Cousins had obliged.

‘Fool!’ he muttered to himself. ‘You’ll never be able to lift up your head again after this – if there is an after,’ he added grimly.

‘What did you say?’ came the voice of Shannon from the man by his side.

‘Oh, I was just quoting,’ replied Cousins.

Again he began to wonder. That voice! It was so perfectly Shannon’s that it seemed impossible that his companion could be an impostor. If he were, then Shannon must have, at some time or other, been studied by a master in the art of mimicry and make-up; perhaps for this very purpose. Cousins strove to persuade himself that he was merely letting his imagination run away with him. But the demon of suspicion had obtained strong hold upon him now; various little matters came uppermost in his mind. The reluctance of the man driving the car to speak. Was that not proof that he feared to give himself away? Surely Shannon would have been only too eager to confide in the other once they were upon that lonely stretch of road, absolutely safe from eavesdroppers! At that point in his reflections the car swung giddily round a bend. Cousins, unprepared, was flung against
his companion. Then, despite himself, he chuckled. He knew only too well what would have happened had he collided with Shannon’s massive shoulders. His whole body would have been jarred by the shock. Nothing like that occurred in this case. He hit something that was soft and gave to the impact – padding!

‘Why are you laughing?’ asked the bogus Shannon.

‘Only because I overbalanced, and was flung against you,’ replied Cousins.

‘You laugh easily.’

‘Haven’t you ever noticed that about me before?’ was the cool retort. He broke into a long quotation from Shakespeare. ‘Very apt, isn’t it?’ he concluded.

‘Very.’

Again Cousins chuckled, this time very softly to himself. The real Shannon professed to loathe quotations, always nipped Cousins’ efforts in that direction in the bud, sometimes with more force than politeness.

‘What I like about you, Shannon,’ went on the little man, ‘is your readiness to listen to me when I quote poetry. As you know, the others generally do their utmost to shut me up. But there, you’re by way of being a poet yourself. What became of that ode you sent to the
Windsor
? Was it published?’

‘Er – not yet,’ came the hesitating reply.

‘It ought to be. I loved the bit about the moon shimmering on the water like a mantle of rapturous delight. How does it go again?’

‘Do you think I can break out into poetry now?’ snapped the other hastily. ‘I’ve other things to think about at the moment.’

‘Once a poet always a poet,’ retorted Cousins.

In the darkness his extraordinarily mobile face creased into a
broad smile. Having assured himself that the man by his side was an impostor, his mind now began to work furiously in an effort to decide what was best to be done. The simplest thing was to produce the automatic he carried in his pocket, hold it against his companion’s head, command him to stop, and get out of the car, or order the fellow to drive him back to Sittingbourne. In that case nothing would be gained, and probably a great deal lost, for his quarry would, in all likelihood, take fright and make his headquarters elsewhere. If he refrained from holding up the driver until they reached their destination, his chances of escaping with information concerning the present hiding place of the organisation were practically nil. Even if he succeeded in getting away, it was certain that there would be nobody to arrest when he got back with help. ‘On the whole,’ he decided, ‘it’s just as well I was fool enough to walk into a trap. It’s the simplest way of getting into the headquarters of these people. Once in I shall be able to study ways and means of getting information to Brien, if they don’t kill me right away.’

In order to have at hand a means of defending himself in the event of his adversaries deciding on such an unpleasant course, Cousins spent some minutes considering where he could hide his automatic so that it would be overlooked when he was searched, as he was bound to be. It was a small Webley, but even so was too bulgy to pass unnoticed in his clothing. Eventually he slipped it cautiously from his pocket.

‘Have you a collection of mosquitoes in this bus?’ he asked the man by his side.

‘What do you mean?’ demanded the latter.

‘Something’s irritating my leg.’

‘Scratch it!’ tersely advised the impostor.

‘Just what I am about to do,’ Cousins informed him. ‘At the same time I object to the necessity of having to do such a thing.’

He lifted up his left leg; subjected it to a vigorous rubbing. During the process he managed to push the weapon into his sock. It did not make for comfort, but there was no danger of its falling out, as the sock was securely held up by a suspender. He muttered a prayer that it would not be discovered.

‘Obviously some prowling insect has bitten me,’ he observed.

There was no answer. The car was approaching the bridge over the channel that separated the island from the mainland, and began to slow down until it was merely crawling along. The driver gave three quick blasts on the electric horn. Cousins, wondering why, was at once on the alert. Suddenly two men appeared in the glare of the headlights, waving their arms.

‘I wonder what is wrong,’ muttered the pseudo Shannon.

He put on the brakes, bringing the motor to a standstill.

‘There’s trouble ahead,’ warned one of the strangers.

‘There’s always trouble,’ replied the driver.

‘Spoken as per arrangement,’ muttered Cousins to himself.

He became aware that the other man was standing at his side of the car; could just discern the revolver held close to his head.

‘Get out, and jump in the back,’ ordered the fellow. ‘Hurry up!’

‘Hullo! What’s all this?’ protested Cousins. ‘Are you holding us up?’

‘Do what you’re told, and be sharp about it.’

‘Do we submit or fight, Shannon?’ asked the little man. He was actually enjoying himself.

For answer the masquerader turned on him, and gave him a push.

‘Out you get,’ he commanded roughly, and the voice was no longer the voice of Shannon.

‘Good Lord!’ ejaculated Cousins. ‘Surely I haven’t made a bloomer. You’re Shannon, aren’t you?’

‘Shannon be hanged! Get a move on. Something might come along at any moment, and—’

‘Then I’ll wait here until something does come along.’

‘If you don’t hop into the back at once,’ came the grating tones of the man with a revolver, ‘I’ll fill you so full of lead that you’ll rattle.’

‘Oh, well, if you put it like that,’ sighed Cousins, ‘I have no option.’

He descended to the road; was immediately hustled into the back seat. The two newcomers stepped in, and sat on either side of him. The car proceeded rapidly on its way.

‘What is the meaning of all this, and who are you?’ demanded the little man. ‘I could swear that Captain Shannon—’

‘Shut up, and remain shut up!’ snapped one of the men. ‘Tie a handkerchief round his eyes, Swede. It’ll be just as well in case of accidents; though, if he does see where he’s going, he won’t live long enough to be able to talk about it.’

‘That doesn’t sound very cheerful,’ commented Cousins.

They both laughed roughly. The Secret Service man’s eyes were bound tightly, after which his hands were tied together behind his back.

‘I think we better gag him,’ suggested one.

‘Not necessary,’ returned the other. ‘If he makes a noise, I’ll dot him on the head. Do you hear?’ He shook the captive.

‘Oh, yes,’ replied Cousins. ‘I’m not suffering from deafness, merely from a kind of offended curiosity.’

‘You’re for it, and that’s all there is to it. Better take things philosophically.’

‘“Philosophy will clip an Angel’s wings,’” quoted Cousins, ‘“Conquer all mysteries by rule and line, Empty the haunted air, and gnomed mine—”’

‘Will you shut up!’

‘Don’t you like poetry?’ asked the little man in aggrieved tones.

All the reply he received was a sound expressive of disgust. He fell silent, striving to sense in which direction they were taking him. But, owing to the frequent turns he became baffled. One thing was obvious; Sheerness would be avoided. They were not likely to take a man whose eyes were covered by a handkerchief, and whose hands were bound behind his back, through the lighted streets of a town. Presently he caught a whiff of the sea. That suggested that the car was close to the coast, heading probably for somewhere near Minster, perhaps between Minster and Eastchurch. He was very interested; felt that he might be able to guess fairly accurately after all in what part of the island the headquarters of the organisation was located. He knew Sheppey rather well. At last the car stopped, the engine was shut off, and he immediately became aware of the dull boom of the sea. It sounded very close by, and his curiosity was aroused. Was it possible that he was to be taken in a boat to some place abroad! Immediately he put the idea aside. It was hardly likely that people who had their headquarters in a foreign country would take the trouble to post letters in Sheerness, and keep a watch on Sittingbourne station. His cogitations were rudely interrupted.

‘Get out!’ bade a curt voice.

He rose; was pushed over the step, and fell headlong. Owing to his hands being tied behind his back, he was unable to do anything to diminish the force of the fall. He crashed to the ground, hitting
his head with such violence that he lay half stunned. In a daze he heard a callous laugh.

‘That will upset his poetical tendencies,’ remarked a voice.

He was jerked to his feet; someone took him by the arm, led him forward up a hill. It seemed to him in his benumbed state that he was climbing for a long time, actually it was a matter of a few minutes. Eventually his feet were guided up three or four steps, he heard a door open, was pushed along what sounded to his keen ears like a stone passage.

‘Who the hell have you got there?’ asked a voice.

‘Don’t know,’ replied one of his captors. ‘The guvnor’ll know him I daresay.’

‘Bring him upstairs.’

Cousins counted the steps he was forced to climb. There were twelve; then apparently a landing, followed by four more. He was propelled six or seven feet, and pushed into a chair. Hands went carefully over his person, searching his clothing thoroughly, removing everything from his pockets. Every moment he dreaded lest the automatic in his sock be found, but it remained undiscovered. He breathed an inward sigh of relief as the searcher desisted in his efforts.

‘Nothing more,’ he heard the fellow say. ‘The most dangerous weapon on him appears to be the pipe.’

‘Might as well let him have that and the baccy pouch,’ remarked the voice of the newcomer. ‘He’ll probably like a smoke or two before he gets his.’

His hands were untied, the handkerchief removed from his eyes. The sudden transition from darkness to a brilliant light caused him to blink owlishly. Before he had become accustomed to the glare, and was able to take stock of the two men, they had
gone, closing a door on him. He heard it being locked on the other side, footsteps receding in the distance.