Get Wallace! Read online

  Get Wallace!

  ALEXANDER WILSON

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  1. Cousins Goes Shopping

  2. How the Plans were Copied

  3. Adrian Saves His Father’s Life

  4. Sir Leonard Takes a Hand

  5. The Anxiety of Monsieur Damien

  6. Cousins is Trapped

  7. An Interview with the ‘Guv’nor’

  8. Through the Tempestuous Night

  9. Stanislaus Ictinos is Exultant

  10. Legitimate Burglary

  11. The Flight of Ictinos

  12. The Organisation is Reduced by Two

  13. Farrell is Offered a Chance

  14. Ictinos Meets Wallace Face-to-Face

  15. Major Brien is Promised an Outing

  16. Down the River

  17. Farrell Earns His Pardon

  18. The Elusive Greek

  19. Sir Peter Nikoleff Stays in Bed

  20. ‘The Affair is Finished’

  21. Yuletide Peace

  About the Author

  By Alexander Wilson

  Copyright

  CHAPTER ONE

  Cousins Goes Shopping

  The Christmas rush was at its height. An almost solid mass of humanity crowded both sides of Oxford Street; taxis, omnibuses, private cars, commercial vehicles panted their way forward by painfully slow degrees, every now and then coming to a protesting stop as the traffic signals barred their progress with scarlet warning. The shops were packed with jolly, clamouring people bent on purchasing gifts for friends and relations, all of them imbued with the spirit which only Yuletide can bring.

  In one of the great stores, of which London has such a large number, a little man, slim, barely five feet in height, made his way from department to department with surprising ease. Unlike so many of the men and women round him, he showed no signs of confusion or agitation. Utterly unperturbed, he progressed by a series of rapid, eel-like wriggles, while others, pushing and jostling, almost remained at a despairing standstill. He managed also to get served without appreciable delay, one or other of the hardworked, but always courteous assistants seeming ready to place herself at his disposal when called upon. It may have been that they were attracted by his deep brown eyes, the brightness of which almost fascinated, or perhaps the mouth, full of humorous curves, proved irresistible. Altogether he was a remarkable individual, compelling attention wherever he went. His extraordinarily wrinkled face was utterly incongruous, when one noticed the slim, boyish figure neatly attired in a dark grey overcoat, grey suit, grey Stetson hat. Whenever he smiled, which he frequently did when conversing with the girls who served him, the wrinkles turned into a mass of little creases, each one of which appeared to be having a little joke on its own. He proved a rare tonic to quite a number of assistants who, previous to his advent, had felt as though they were about to collapse from sheer fatigue.

  By the time he reached the wireless department, he was loaded with parcels. He spent some time inspecting valves and loud speakers; then turned his attention to the display of cabinets. Customers desirous of purchasing radio sets were being shown the latest models by polite young men; in various parts of the room were listening-in to scraps of the programmes broadcast from London Regional, National, Radio Normandie and other stations. Suddenly above the medley of music and song came the rapid, insistent tap of a Morse message. A young salesman standing close to the little man with the wrinkled face gave vent to an expression of annoyance.

  ‘That blessed row keeps butting in and spoiling our demonstrations,’ he remarked, as though looking for a sympathiser. ‘You’d hardly believe it, sir, but there are some people who know so little of wireless that they imagine the dot-dash-dot business to be caused by a flaw in the set.’

  ‘You surprise me,’ returned the little man. ‘I suppose it is actually a ship sending a message.’

  ‘I can’t make out what it is. To tell you the truth I feel rather puzzled about it. It is butting into all the stations, and is so loud and persistent—’

  ‘What you might describe as remorseless,’ murmured the other, his bright eyes twinkling mischievously.

  The demonstrator eyed him more in sorrow than in anger; was about to turn away when, sharp above the strains of a melody played by a symphony orchestra, came the staccato note of the wireless message once more.

  ‘There it is again, blow it,’ grunted the salesman. ‘Odd that it should keep coming through like that, isn’t it?’

  But the little man was not paying any attention to him. He was listening to the rapid series of dots and dashes coming over the air with such force. The first time he had heard the interruption he had been too much engaged to take any notice of it. Now he was spelling out the message to himself with surprising results.

  X. S. B. Seven, it ran, wanted at Headquarters immediately. Most urgent.

  As the sound of the last dot died away, leaving the music triumphant, the man with the wrinkled face turned to the demonstrator.

  ‘Where is the nearest telephone?’ he demanded.

  On receipt of the information, he rapidly wriggled his way through the crowds to the telephone department. The number he murmured to the operator acted like a charm. Without the slightest delay she indicated a box, eyeing him with great curiosity as she did so. Carefully shutting the door behind him, he placed the receiver to his ear.

  ‘Cousins speaking, sir,’ was all he said.

  ‘Good,’ came a quiet voice from the other end of the wire. ‘We’ve been trying to get hold of you for the last hour. Where are you and what are you doing?’

  ‘In Selfridges – shopping,’ replied Cousins.

  A soft chuckle seemed to indicate that the other man was amused.

  ‘Sorry to interrupt your laudable endeavour to help trade, Cousins,’ he observed. ‘But I want you here – at once.’

  ‘Very well, sir. I’ll be with you in ten minutes.’

  Having given instructions for his numerous parcels to be sent to his flat in Lancaster Gate, the little man, whose name was Cousins, and who was down as X. S. B. Seven in the records of a certain important government department, quickly went from the congestion and noise of Selfridges into the rattle, roar, and crush of Oxford Street. Hailing a taxicab he directed the driver to take him to Whitehall, giving explicit instructions about the route to be followed. Few people know London as Cousins does. He gave a lesson to the taxi driver that afternoon, concerning the way to get from Selfridges to Whitehall by the shortest and least congested route, that was an eye-opener to a man who had previously considered his knowledge of the metropolis unique.

  Seven minutes after concluding his telephone conversation, Cousins alighted near the Foreign Office. Paying off the taxi he walked across to the building which is the headquarters of the British Intelligence Service. Less than two minutes later he entered the office of Major Brien, one-time officer of cavalry, now head of the office staff and second in command to Sir Leonard Wallace, Chief of Great Britain’s Secret Service. The tall, upright man, whose fair hair was rapidly thinning, and whose good-looking face was beginning to show signs of the strain of years in the most exacting profession in the world, greeted Cousins from behind a desk literally buried under a mass of documents of all shapes, colours, and sizes. His blue eyes twinkled merrily, as he surveyed the dapper little man, who ranked very high in the list of those devoting their lives to their country’s service, as members of that very silent but very efficient corps of patriots.

  ‘I’m beastly sorry to interrupt your Christmas shopping, Cousins,’ he observed, ‘and as our French friends would say, utterly desolated at calling you back in the midst of the first leave you’ve had for about three years. But que voulez-vous? It is the service callin
g. Take a pew, and help yourself to a cigarette, if you can find one.’

  He pushed aside a heap of reports, uncovering a large silver cigarette box. Cousins, preferring his pipe, filled and lit it before sinking into a comfortable leather armchair close to the desk.

  ‘I hate leave,’ he pronounced with a smile; ‘always feel lost. To quote Ruskin—’

  ‘Don’t quote anybody,’ interrupted Brien hastily. He helped himself to a cigarette, lit it, and sent a spiral of grey-blue smoke rising towards the ceiling. ‘We telephoned to all sorts of places in an attempt to find you,’ he resumed presently, ‘before getting the Admiralty to send out a wireless message in the rather vain hope that you might pick it up somewhere. If the matter had not been extremely urgent I shouldn’t have bothered you. But I am very short-handed at the moment. Most of the experts are spread over Europe engaged on other jobs. Maddison is here, but he’s as puzzled as I am. There is nobody else I dare rely upon in an affair of such gravity as this. I shall be heartily glad when Sir Leonard gets back from the United States.’

  ‘What’s the trouble, sir?’ queried Cousins.

  Major Brien sat reflectively stroking his small military moustache for a few seconds; then leant forward.

  ‘Two of our most cherished military secrets,’ he observed, ‘have, during the last few days, been offered for sale to the governments of France, Germany, and Russia. One consists of the plans of the Wentworth gun, the other the Masterson monoplane. I received information to the effect that negotiations had been opened in Moscow and Berlin, from Reval and Gottfried respectively, early this morning. This afternoon Lalére informed me from Paris that the Quai d’Orsay had been invited by some mysterious agency to make an offer for the plans.’

  Cousins took his pipe from his mouth, and whistled.

  ‘This looks serious,’ he murmured. ‘Is there any clue to show how the leakage occurred?’

  ‘Not the slightest. Neither the War Office nor the Air Ministry have had any reason to suspect leakages. Both were astounded at my information. Lindsay, from the Special Branch, and Maddison have both been investigating without result. The only people who had access to the plans are beyond suspicion; nobody else could have touched them.’

  ‘Still somebody has,’ remarked Cousins, ‘unless—’

  ‘Unless what?’

  ‘The whole thing may be a hoax. Some enterprising crook may have hit upon a new idea for making money. The plans may be dummies.’

  Major Brien shook his head.

  ‘Not a chance,’ he commented. ‘Governments don’t buy other nations’ secrets until they are pretty certain they are getting the pukka goods for their money. Which brings me to the second part of my yarn: the Foreign Office has received a cryptic sort of communication stating that the writer has full information regarding the secret plans of France for certain offensive and defensive alliances in the near future; he also states that he can sell intelligence regarding certain German secrets of the utmost importance. On the assumption that the FO is prepared to negotiate, a carefully worded announcement is asked for in the personal column of The Times stating as much, and assuring him of safe conduct and freedom from any sort of espionage.’

  Again Cousins whistled.

  ‘Well, that beats the band,’ he declared. ‘It almost looks as though somebody has hit upon a new kind of profession. Making a corner in national secrets, and selling them to foreign powers should be a profitable kind of business, if it is genuine.’

  ‘I don’t see how such a thing can be possible,’ objected Brien. ‘Of course, we know that very carefully guarded information does leak out occasionally, but it would be impossible for any man or organisation to collect national secrets indiscriminately, and sell them to the highest bidder.’

  ‘It does seem a tall order,’ agreed Cousins; ‘still, one never knows. Unless the whole thing is a big bluff, however, it looks mighty serious. If the plans of the Wentworth gun and Masterson monoplane have, by some means, been copied, and are in the possession of unauthorised people, we’ve got to make an attempt to get them back before they are secrets no longer, or, as the lines in La Mascatte have it, “Entre nous, c’est qu’on appelle Le secret de polichinelle.”’

  Brien grinned at this example of the little man’s passion for quotations, but immediately became grave again.

  ‘It’s all very well to say we must get the copies of the plans,’ he complained, ‘but how is it to be done? Instructions were immediately sent to Reval, Gottfried, and Lalére to leave no stone unturned to prevent their being sold, and you can bet they will do all that is humanly possible. The trouble is, however, that they have no clue to the identity of the organisation that is offering to sell the plans. Read these!’

  He passed across a sheaf of papers to Cousins, who read what was written on them carefully, before handing them back.

  ‘H’m!’ he grunted. ‘They certainly don’t know much. Each has obtained his information from a private source in the foreign offices of the three countries. If only they had been able to find out from where the communication to each power had been dispatched, we’d have something to work on. I suppose there is nothing to help us in this way at all?’

  ‘Nothing. We have ascertained that, as you have seen.’ He tapped the bundle of papers lying before him. ‘There have been no other wires. It looks as though both the secrets of the monoplane and the gun will be fairly common property before we can do anything.’

  ‘There’s one hope,’ pointed out Cousins. ‘Paris, Berlin, and Moscow are places at considerable distances apart. Obviously the fellow who is bent on selling the plans cannot be in three spots at once, and, as he is offering them to three governments, the negotiations must take place by letter or wire. That means a certain amount of delay, which will be further increased by the haggling that will necessarily take place before he disposes of them to the highest bidder.’

  ‘Very comforting,’ murmured Brien, with a slight note of sarcasm in his voice, ‘but I can find numerous objections to all that. If it is an organisation, and not an individual, or even if it is an individual, behind it all, negotiations may be conducted by agents with full power to accept a certain figure. If that is the case the whole business could be concluded in a few hours.’

  ‘Then the plans would have to be taken or sent to whatever government paid the sum demanded.’

  ‘Why shouldn’t each agent have a copy? If one can be made, so can three.’

  Cousins shook his head.

  ‘The fellow behind the deal would never risk entrusting such precious documents in the hands of others. Besides, he wouldn’t sell them to three nations at once.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘They’d lose their value. He could make more from one than three. Each would be told that they are on offer elsewhere, and invited to bid. The highest bidder will obtain the spoils, but naturally he would make a condition that they were not to be sold elsewhere as well.’

  ‘How would he know?’

  The little man smiled.

  ‘Britain is not the only country with a secret service,’ he reminded the ex-cavalry man. ‘We know that the plans are being offered for sale in Moscow, Berlin, and Paris. You can be pretty sure that each of those capitals is aware that they are being offered elsewhere as well. No; our enterprising seller of secrets will act as auctioneer, and it will be some time before he decides that he has obtained a price worth accepting.’

  Brien sat gently tapping the desk with his fingers for some moments.

  ‘You may be right,’ he remarked at length, ‘but that doesn’t bring us any nearer solving the riddle of the identity of the person or persons in whose possession are the copies of the plans.’

  The little man with the wrinkled face sat very still for some time considering the position. Before he spoke again, a small, keen-eyed, grey-haired individual carrying a file entered the room.

  ‘You’re just the man we want, Maddison,’ commented Major Brien. ‘Is there anything you can t
ell Cousins about your visits to the War Office and Air Ministry which is likely to give any clue, no matter how insignificant it may be, regarding the manner in which the leakage of the plans occurred?’

  The newcomer shook his head slowly.

  ‘Not a thing,’ he confessed. ‘Both sets of plans are locked up in burglar-proof safes to which only the Air-Marshal and Vice-Marshal have access in one case and General Warrington and the permanent Under-Secretary in the other. The plans themselves were quite intact, and showed no signs of having been tampered with. With the exception of the models no attempt has yet been made at construction, and the only people, apart from the inventors, who have so far seen the plans, are the two bodies of experts who tested and adjudicated.’

  ‘All of course beyond suspicion,’ put in Brien. ‘I was at both demonstrations, and can vouch that no unauthorised person was present.’

  Cousins looked sharply at him.

  ‘How do you know that all were beyond suspicion?’ he demanded. ‘I grant you that it seems ridiculous to suspect men of their position and record, but somehow those plans have been copied, and, until we find out who did it, everybody concerned is under suspicion.’

  ‘Even the Air-Marshal and General Warrington?’ queried Brien with a twinkle in his eyes.

  Cousins nodded.

  ‘I said everybody,’ he insisted.

  ‘You’re a suspicious beggar, Cousins,’ smiled Maddison.

  ‘Aren’t we all, in this service? If we’re not, we jolly well should be.’

  ‘Well,’ demanded the deputy-chief, ‘what do you suggest?’

  ‘I’m going round to the Air Ministry and War Office myself,’ was the reply. ‘I don’t suppose I’ll discover anything, as Maddison hasn’t, but there’s just a chance. After, all,’ he glanced slyly at the grey-haired man, his face creasing into one of his inimitable smiles, ‘he was once a policeman, and that’s bound to have cramped his style somewhat.’

  ‘I always thought you were a bit jealous of my Scotland Yard experience,’ retorted Maddison.