Wallace of the Secret Service (21 page)

He subjected the writing-table to a very thorough search, but it was of no use. The notebook had gone. He went out into the garden and, finding a secluded spot, sat down on a stone seat to think things over. This looked like being a problem beyond his powers to solve. If he had only had an inkling of the nature of the information Sir George had wished to impart to him, there would have been something to go upon. It should not have been very difficult to trace the murderer once he knew something of the story the Ambassador had been so anxious to relate to him. As it was he would be compelled to continue what seemed a hopeless search for the assassin and, if he were lucky enough to find the man, work on from that point in an effort to discover what had become of the notebook. He smiled grimly to himself, as he filled and lit his pipe.

‘I certainly seem to have struck the very deuce of a riddle,’ he murmured.

He had a further interview with Lady Paterson, and told her of his failure to find anything in the secret drawer. She was unable to help him, had not even known that Sir George had hidden a notebook in the escritoire.

‘Somebody must have watched him put it there,’ she said, ‘and extracted it.’

‘Obviously,’ nodded Sir Leonard, ‘but who? Did he ever mention to you, or hint in any way, that he possessed important intelligence which he intended passing on to the government?’

She shook her head and, noticing that any mention of her husband only distressed her, he forbore from questioning her further, and departed in search of Captain Winslow. The latter was engaged in his office, and looked up eagerly as Wallace entered.

‘Any news, sir?’ he asked.

‘Not a thing,’ was the reply. ‘In fact the mystery deepens. I know I’ve put you through it pretty badly with my questions, but I’ve one more to ask. During the last two or three weeks did Sir George receive any letters or messages, apart from his private correspondence, which caused him any excitement or concern, the contents of which he kept secret from you?’

‘Not that I know of,’ returned Winslow, ‘but of course, it would be difficult to say. Letters addressed to him personally were never handed to me or Wainwright unless they turned out to concern matters relating to the embassy.’

‘If a letter, such as I have in my mind, did arrive, I should imagine it would be merely addressed to the British Ambassador or Minister.’

‘In that case,’ declared Winslow, ‘Sir George would not have opened it – it would have been left to us.’

‘That’s natural of course,’ nodded Wallace. ‘Did he hold any private interviews during the period I have mentioned – I mean with people of whom you had no knowledge?’

The attaché thought deeply for several seconds; then:

‘I can remember two,’ he said. ‘One was with a woman dressed in black and heavily veiled; the other was with a rather greasy-looking Greek.’

‘How did they succeed in obtaining interviews?’

‘I don’t know. Wainwright and Gardener probably will.’ He rang a bell and a clerk promptly entered the room. ‘Ask Mr Wainwright to come into my office.’

A young man with the build of an athlete made his appearance.

‘Do you remember that veiled woman and the Greek who had interviews with the chief about ten days ago?’ asked Winslow.

‘Yes,’ returned Wainwright. ‘They came on the same day.’

‘Sir Leonard wants to know how they obtained interviews.’

‘The woman sent in a cryptic message to the effect that she desired to throw herself on Sir George’s mercy, because she understood all Englishmen were just and merciful. She would give no name, but Sir George was so interested that he saw her.’

‘What nationality was she?’ asked Wallace.

‘I couldn’t say, sir,’ returned the young man. ‘She spoke in French without any trace of accent, as far as I could judge, but she had such a thick veil over her face that it was impossible to see her features.’

‘Do you think she was young?’

‘Very, I should imagine.’

‘And the man?’

‘Oh, I can tell you more about him, sir. He was a Greek of the minor official class; tall, thin and oily. His name was Moropoulos, and he sent in a sealed letter to his Excellency, who saw him at once.’

‘Ah! That sounds interesting.’ He smiled at Winslow. ‘So there was a letter after all,’ he observed. ‘Sir George said nothing to either of you concerning these people? You have no idea who they were, or what their business was?’

‘None at all,’ replied both men.

‘Another cul-de-sac,’ groaned Wallace. ‘If we could only trace one or both, we might begin to obtain results. I wonder what became of that letter the Greek handed in? I’ve searched through all Sir George’s correspondence very carefully, but nothing of any interest whatever was found, certainly nothing signed by a man calling himself Moropoulos. By Jove!’ he exclaimed suddenly. ‘Can either of you tell me what kind of clothing Sir George was wearing on that day?’

They stared at him curiously; then consulted each other.

‘I believe he had on a brown suit,’ said Winslow, ‘but I couldn’t be sure.’

‘It wasn’t a light suit that might have gone to the laundry?’

‘No; it’s been too cold lately for that sort of thing.’

‘It
was
a brown suit,’ broke in Wainwright. ‘I remember now noticing that the Greek wore one of a similar shade.’

Sir Leonard left them, and ascended to the late Ambassador’s dressing room. The valet was busy there packing away clothing and other articles. He had been devoted to his late master, and there was suspicious moisture in his eyes as he carefully folded the garments. He greeted Wallace respectfully, but without much interest.

‘How many brown suits had Sir George?’ asked the latter.

‘Only one, sir,’ was the reply. ‘It was a colour Sir George didn’t care for much.’

‘May I see it?’

The valet went to a hanging-cupboard and, taking out the suit, placed it on the back of a chair. Sir Leonard picked up the jacket, and felt through the pockets.

‘I’m afraid you won’t find anything in the pockets, sir,’ observed the man. ‘It was my habit to remove everything when my master changed his clothing.’

‘What did you do with the things you found?’

‘Put them back, if I thought they were wanted, otherwise locked them up in that drawer over there. Sir George would look through it every now and then, and destroy any old letters or notes he didn’t want.’

The mention of letters interested Sir Leonard. He had assured himself that there was nothing in the pockets of the brown suit, and now walked across to the drawer indicated.

‘Is there anything in it?’ he asked.

‘Yes, sir; I haven’t cleared it out yet.’

The valet unlocked it, and stood aside watching the Chief of the Secret Service as he searched through the conglomeration of articles within. There were several old letters, all of which he put on one side until he had finished examining the other things. Then he took them up one by one, and went through them. The first two were of no interest whatever, but the third drew from him a muttered exclamation of satisfaction. It was a note in French from a man signing himself Zeno Moropoulos, requesting an interview. The final paragraph caused Sir Leonard to emit a sigh of relief.

He put the note in his pocket and continued his inspection of the others, but none of them were of importance.

‘How is it these were not destroyed?’ he asked.

‘I put them there only a day or two before Sir George was taken ill, sir. Is there anything else you wish to see?’

‘No; I don’t think so; at least, not just now.’

He sent for one of the embassy cars, and was driven to the Orient Hotel. There a partial disappointment awaited him. Moropoulos had left, but, although he had given no address for letters to be forwarded, the clerk was able to inform Sir Leonard that the Greek had gone to live with a compatriot, who kept a café in Galata. Writing down the address, Wallace thanked the man, and returned to the embassy. It was beginning to get dark by that time and, as he had had a certain amount of experience of the side streets of Constantinople at night, he determined to take Batty with him to Georgiadi’s café. Two are a great deal safer than one. Most of the streets of Constantinople, with the exception of the Grand Rue de Pera, are very badly lighted and, after dark, are dangerous for wayfarers who look in any way affluent. Robbery, sometimes death, skulks in the shadows, and the watchmen with their long wooden staffs are often worse than useless. They are more picturesque than efficient. Under the wise and able guidance of Mustapha Kemal Pasha, conditions are daily improving, but it will be a long time before the inhabitants of the
Sublime Porte
are able to walk anywhere
in the city without fear of molestation. Sir Leonard knew this and, though he had no fear of attack, saw no sense in taking needless risks.

Batty enjoyed the trip. He had never been to Constantinople before, though he had been close to it during the War, when he had been on the ill-fated
Irresistible
in the Dardanelles. Since his arrival in the Turkish city he had paid a visit to St Sophia, been rather awed by the magnificence of the distant views, but disgusted by the sordidness which disclosed itself on closer inspection.

They had no difficulty in finding Georgiadi’s café. It was in a street which seemed devoted to cafés, pawnshops, and bars, where sailors of many nations congregated, and vendors of all kinds of wares crowded the sidewalks. The place itself possessed a kind of tawdry brilliance, and was redolent of cooking, garlic rising triumphant over the other odours. Sir Leonard sent for the proprietor, and a little fat man in a greasy travesty of full evening dress hurried up. His eyes glinted as they took in the spare, smartly-dressed figure. With a great effort he bowed almost double.

‘Good night, sare,’ he commenced in laboured English. ‘I come at your service.’

Sir Leonard smiled.

‘I wish to see Mr Moropoulos,’ he announced.

An expression very much like fear appeared on the fat man’s face, to be replaced, with an effort, by a forced look of surprise, which did not deceive Wallace.

‘Who is it zis Moropoulos?’ asked the Greek.

‘Mr Georgiadi,’ returned the Englishman in uncompromising tones, ‘I am a busy man, and certainly have no time to waste in
mummery. I understand Moropoulos is here. I am from the British Embassy, and I wish to see him – at once if possible.’

A change came over the little man’s attitude. He looked round mysteriously.

‘I think a private room, yes?’ he inquired.

‘A private room by all means,’ responded Sir Leonard.

He and Batty were taken through the main restaurant, up a flight of stairs, and along a corridor which had numbered doors on either side. They were ushered into one of these, a small, barely furnished room, the chief articles it contained being a dining-table, a couple of cane chairs, and a couch. Batty looked at the couch and grinned.

‘I will Moropoulos send,’ announced the Greek.

He bowed again, went out, and closed the door behind him. Some minutes went by then a tall, thin man entered almost furtively. He stood looking at Sir Leonard, as though in a state of indecision, until beckoned forward and told to take a seat. He was an unpleasant-looking person with black shiny hair, small pig-like eyes, and several days’ growth of beard on his jowl.

‘Your name is Moropoulos?’ began the Englishman.

The Greek looked uneasily round, but did not answer until Wallace told Batty to stand outside the door to prevent the possibility of eavesdroppers; then he nodded his head.

‘I speak not the English well,’ he remarked.

‘We shall speak in French then,’ decided Sir Leonard in that language. ‘I have come from the British Embassy in order to find out what passed between you and Sir George Paterson. My name is Wallace, I am a high official of the English Foreign Office, and you can speak quite openly to me.’

A cunning gleam came into the fellow’s eyes.

‘How am I to know you are who you say you are?’ he asked.

‘If I were not,’ retorted Sir Leonard, ‘would I be here now? Sir George sent to England for me obviously to impart some very important information to me. I arrived to find him dying, and too late to receive that information. I am convinced that he was murdered to prevent him passing on a statement which you made to him privately.’

The Greek’s face went a sickly yellow.

‘No, no,’ he protested vehemently; ‘that cannot be. Nobody knew that – that I told the English Ambassador – what I told him. Nobody ever knew that I possessed the knowledge.’

‘What was it?’

There was a long pause, during which Moropoulos sat twisting and untwisting his hands, obviously prey to a mixture of fear and irresolution. At length he shook his head.

‘Monsieur,’ he said, ‘I cannot tell you – I dare not.’

‘Come, come,’ protested Wallace. ‘If you can tell Sir George, you can tell me.’

‘No,’ he shook his head, as though he had definitely made up his mind. ‘It is better that the secret should die with Sir George Paterson. I can tell you nothing.’

Sir Leonard regarded him thoughtfully.

‘I presume from that,’ he observed coldly, ‘that you were paid by Sir George for your information, and that you expect another payment from me before you will open your lips.’

The Greek protested, but an avaricious gleam came into his eyes, which the Englishman did not fail to notice.

‘How much?’ he demanded.

But Moropoulos continued to express his intention not to speak.

‘Look here,’ persisted Sir Leonard, ‘this attitude won’t do, my man. It is obvious you told Sir George Paterson something which he considered important enough to pass on to his government. Will you come to the embassy and tell me there? That will convince you that I have a right to know what it is.’

‘I do not doubt your right, Monsieur. But I made a mistake – I should not have told the Ambassador. It is well that the secret has gone to the grave with him.’