Microbes of Power (Wallace of the Secret Service Series) (10 page)

‘Good Lord!’ he muttered to himself. ‘It’s Thalia Ictinos!’

Shannon had vivid recollections of his previous dealings with the girl; had spent too much time in her company to have made an error in identity. Besides, he felt, there could not be two women in the world with that glamorous, fascinating beauty – a beauty which he mentally and cynically decided came from hell rather than heaven, and was calculated to lead men to ruin. Thalia Ictinos was a great and unexpected danger. She would recognise him at once. Her father, ruthless and a fiend, had been engaged with others in a plot to steal and sell international secrets. One of his accomplices, a man with a wonderful power of disguise, had actually impersonated Shannon in order to lure another Secret Service man to destruction. The plot had almost succeeded, but Sir Leonard Wallace, partially by taking advantage of the fact that Shannon had been impersonated, had turned the tables. Ictinos had escaped death on the gallows by dying of pneumonia brought on by wounds and exposure, three of his accomplices had been hanged for murders they had committed, and the gang had been completely broken up. Thalia Ictinos had apparently taken no active part in the conspiracy, though she had
shown a vein of cruelty that could only have been inherited from her father. She had, however, made a desperate attempt to save him from Sir Leonard; had afterwards threatened the Chief of the Secret Service. When Stanislas Ictinos had died, she had disappeared from England, and had not been heard of since. That was more than a year ago. It was disconcerting to find that she was connected with the conspiracy Shannon was now bent on unravelling. It meant that he would be gravely handicapped, for, all the time, he would run the risk of being recognised.

Grudgingly he admired the feline grace of her walk, which even a mackintosh could do nothing to hide, as she passed on with the others towards the customs shed. She was wearing a little hat drawn low over her forehead, but he caught a glimpse of the long, curling eyelashes shading her great, slate-blue eyes, her rather long but perfectly shaped nose, the deep scarlet of her exquisite lips, rendering even more noticeable the flawless complexion entirely devoid of colour. Despite his feelings, Shannon gasped. She was so utterly beautiful, quite one of the loveliest women he had ever seen. It was hard to believe that within her beat a heart that was entirely callous and cruel, but he knew her, and he frowned more deeply, as he reflected again on the difficulties that would now beset him.

Taking advantage of every vestige of cover, he followed the party to the customs shed, where their baggage was strictly examined. Perhaps the officers resented having to be on duty at such an early hour, and consequently revenged themselves on the passengers. Whatever the reason, they searched the luggage with the most extreme care, but Shannon was indebted to their meticulous thoroughness for the fact that he obtained an important item of information. The people he had under observation were joined by another man, who seemed as though he also was connected with
the party, though he made it consist of one more than Shannon calculated there should have been. He was a man of middle height, thin almost to the point of emaciation, with the stoop of the scholar. He possessed a sallow, cadaverous face in which a long-pointed nose predominated. His eyes were curiously magnified by his glasses and, as he had extremely arched eyebrows, his face wore a permanent expression of almost childlike surprise. A small, thin-lipped mouth completed a countenance which Shannon found interesting. He was engaged in an argument with a customs official, when the Englishman’s attention was first drawn to him. The latter managed to approach close enough to get a view of the article that was apparently causing the dispute. It was a large wooden case, fitted to contain the numerous bottles, retorts and burettes with which it was packed. Michalis and two other men, who were looking on and listening, appeared greatly concerned. Eventually a senior officer was called to give his verdict. He questioned the owner of the case very closely about the contents. Shannon was not able to hear much of what was being said until they all raised their voices.

‘I am a chemist,’ cried the central figure of the controversy in passable Italian; ‘these are merely various samples of drugs and gases which I need for certain experiments I am conducting.’

‘But, signor,’ came firmly from the senior official, ‘it is necessary for you to have a permit to land such commodities. You should have obtained it from the Italian consul at the port where you embarked.’

‘I did not know. These matters are beyond my understanding.’

‘You should learn to understand,’ retorted the other drily, ‘if you wish to carry articles of this nature about with you.’

One of the others, a stocky, thickset man with a hooked nose
and aggressive jaw, stepped forward. He said something to the other rapidly, but not loud enough to enable Shannon to hear. The officer listened attentively; then smiled, and shook his head.

‘I know you, of course, by name, Signor Bruno,’ he replied, ‘nevertheless, I am unable to accept your assurance on behalf of this gentleman. However, you may be able to arrange for the necessary permit. In the meantime, we will be compelled to retain the case.’

‘But we are not remaining in Naples,’ protested the owner angrily. ‘We are going to Rome.’

Shannon gave a little inward sigh of satisfaction. It was something to know their destination.

‘Allow me to advise you,’ suggested the customs official suavely. ‘Go to Rome, and as soon as you arrive obtain the permit. I will see that the case is sealed and sent to Rome by boat today. On its arrival, you will be able to claim it. You will, of course, have to pay the cost of transport.’

With that they were compelled to agree, though the man, to whom the case belonged, showed a good deal of reluctance in letting it pass out of his care. It was closed, locked, and sealed. All other baggage having, by that time, been passed, the party prepared to depart. Three taxicabs were engaged, and Shannon managed to get close enough – always keeping a wary eye on Thalia Ictinos – to hear that the drivers were directed to proceed to his own hotel.

He allowed them to go without following, feeling as certain as he reasonably could be that he had succeeded in remaining unobserved. His visit to the docks had not been wasted. It is true the obtaining of his ticket for Marseilles had turned out to be unnecessary, but that did not matter. He had learnt the destination of the party and, having made a careful study of each member, was assured that he would know them all again. The only fly in the
ointment of his complete satisfaction was the appearance of Thalia Ictinos among them. It meant that he would be compelled to ask for the assistance of someone whom she did not know. With that thought in his mind he drove to the British consulate. There he had a chat with the consul who, he discovered, had already risen. In ten minutes a transcontinental telephone call had been put through to the Foreign Office, and extended over the private line to Sir Leonard Wallace’s house in Piccadilly. Shannon spoke in guarded terms to the chief. Anyone listening in would have been left with the belief that the conversation was not of any particular importance, but Shannon conveyed to Sir Leonard the news that the people he was watching were bound for Rome whither he would follow them. He also informed Wallace that Thalia Ictinos was of the party, and that it would be necessary for him to keep in the background to a great extent, in consequence. In equally guarded manner he received the congratulations of Sir Leonard on his success in getting in touch with them, and was informed that a man would be sent at once to assist him.

‘The Splendide is an excellent place,’ remarked Wallace finally, from which Shannon gathered that he was to watch out for his assistant at that hotel in Rome.

He returned to the Vesuve, taking precautions to enter unobserved. He went straight to his room, and packed his belongings, a task that was quickly accomplished. Then, descending, he made his cautious way to the coffee room. Michalis and the whole party were there. Thalia Ictinos and two sleek young men were at a table alone, the rest being seated at two tables drawn together to make a long one. There were few other people in the large room and, at first, Shannon was disinclined to enter, but he espied a vacant table behind a pillar which he could reach without being seen. He walked
to it, and sat down. It was in an ideal spot, for he was enabled to keep observation without any possibility of the eyes of the twelve people in the remote corner of the apartment falling on him, except when they passed on their way out. He ordered breakfast, and sent for a newspaper.

‘You have a large party over there,’ he remarked casually in English to his waiter, when the man came hurrying up with the second course.

He knew that nobody was more qualified to give information regarding hotel guests than an Italian waiter. It was true that Paul Michalis and his companions had only recently arrived, but the man would have already discussed them with his fellows and possibly other members of the hotel staff. Shannon’s presumption proved correct.

‘Yes, signor,’ replied the waiter, who spoke perfect English, ‘they arrived on the Messageries Maritimes steamer this morning. They have come here but to rest and take their meals. This afternoon they depart for Rome.’

He was even able to give the time of the train, though that was not of much importance, as Shannon had no intention of allowing them far from his sight. He finished his breakfast before they had concluded theirs, and wandered out to the lounge where again he found a secluded spot which commanded the main doors of the hotel, the lifts, and the staircase. His newspaper proved exceedingly handy as a screen whenever any of them approached, which was not often. Michalis, Bruno, and a grey-haired, soldierly-looking man with a bristly moustache and complexion the colour of mahogany, sat together most of the morning, smoking, and drinking wine. Occasionally one or two of the others joined them for a short period. Shannon saw nothing of Thalia Ictinos or of the other two
women. They had apparently retired to a more secluded apartment. The chemist also was conspicuous by his absence. The Secret Service man was rather puzzled by the connection that existed between the conspirators and the scientist. The combination seemed curious to say the least. The latter was hardly the type of individual to further the schemes they had afoot. Yet from the anxious expressions on the faces of the others, when the dispute concerning the case containing the chemical apparatus had been at its height, Shannon had judged them to be as concerned as he. Where had he joined them? There had been no mention of his having been a member of the party that had left Nicosia and sailed from Famagusta so hurriedly. He may, of course, have joined the boat independently of them. The Englishman was rather inclined to believe that he had. He certainly had the appearance of being a Cypriot.

Bruno and Michalis left the hotel shortly after noon as though going for a walk. Shannon followed them. He did not like to be out of touch with, at least, some of them, and the grey-haired man, who, he had concluded, was General Radoloff, had disappeared up the staircase. However, they only went to Detken and Rocholl, the booksellers in the Piazza del Plebiscito, where they spent some time selecting and purchasing a very modern and expensive atlas. Afterwards they returned to the hotel, where the whole party united again for luncheon. Shannon’s curiosity had grown. He was still exceedingly puzzled by the chemist and his chemicals. The purchase of the atlas added to his interest. It seemed a strangely innocent article, and yet it suggested possibilities that he found intriguing.

When the Rome Express drew out from Naples that afternoon on its four and a half hours’ journey to the Eternal City, Shannon was the sole occupant of a compartment in the rear of the train. The twelve people he was shadowing had entered the first coach, the
restaurant car being the third. There was little likelihood, therefore, of any of them appearing at his end of the train. However, he continued to use newspapers to screen himself from the view of anybody passing along the corridor, and ordered tea to be brought along to his compartment.

Rome has only one terminus which, situated as it is in a district suggestive of a conflict between the ages, plunges the visitor at once into the real, vital Rome. No sooner does he leave the station than he finds himself surrounded by an amazing mixture of the ancient and modern. There before his eyes are the Baths of Diocletian, dating from the fourth century AD, and a remnant of the Wall of Servius constructed in the fifth century BC. The church of St Maria degli Angeli, one of the works of Michael Angelo, and dating from the sixteenth century, towers amidst them, while, at the beginning of the Via Nazionale, the Roman architecture of today is represented by a crescent of white buildings. In the open space in front of St Maria degli Angeli also there stands the memorial of the Great War. Even the lovely fountain, one of the many in Rome, with its sparkling column of water, is suggestive of the new and old. The water flows from the Sabine Hills, along an aqueduct that was built in 146 BC, while the fountain with its gods and naiads is entirely modern. Altogether the city of the Romans seems to possess a startlingly anachronistic character, which is heightened by the sight of posters of films pasted against walls that Julius Caesar’s eyes may have regarded on his return to Rome from one of his conquests.

Shannon had spent prolonged periods in the Italian capital, which in consequence was a very familiar city to him, but apparently some of the people he was following had never been there before. Signor Bruno, with the pride of the Italian, stood outside the station expatiating on the glories to be seen before their eyes for a
considerable time, before at length taxis were called, and the party drove away. Shannon in another was never far behind. Their course from the station, carefully noted by the Englishman, went along the Piazza delle Terme, to the left along the Via Venti Settembre, across the Via Quattro Fontane until the Quirinal was reached, when they turned into the tunnel running under the palace and gardens. No taxi driver in Rome ever seems to neglect an opportunity of taking one through that tunnel. He will often go out of his way in order to enter it. Shannon strongly suspected that it was because of the noise. Romans, he knew from experience, seem to love noise. Motor cars hoot incessantly, tramcars clang and clatter their way along, while there is no apparent rule of the road, drivers depending on arrogant movements of their hands or heads to indicate their direction. Someone once said that in Rome the past is always present, which perhaps accounts for the sense of independence and individuality possessed by the Romans. Pedestrians never seem to hurry out of the way of traffic, and yet are not run over in that paradox of a city, which possesses so many roads apparently constructed for pigmies and palaces built for giants.