Wallace of the Secret Service (30 page)

As his speech drew to a close his voice vibrated with feeling, and a united shout of
Satyagraha
greeted the conclusion. It was obvious that, among the leaders of the Congress gathered in the room with Mr Gandhi, there was not one dissentient. All were absolutely, enthusiastically in favour of the campaign of civil disobedience. A long discussion followed regarding details, but Sir Leonard only lingered until he was certain that the Mahatma’s proposals were to be adopted, and that there was nothing else for him to learn. He crept quietly back to his little room, fastened the bells round his ankles again, and sat down to wait. He felt that he would have given anything for a smoke, but it would be several hours before he could satisfy his craving for tobacco. The stump of his arm ached abominably, and a large clot of blood had formed on it. He felt it ruefully, and grimaced at the thought that blood-poisoning might possibly set in.

Half an hour went by; then abruptly the
chick
over the door was drawn aside, and Gandhi entered. He inquired solicitously after the welfare of the injured fakir, and received by way of reply a stream of invective regarding white people in general and the man, in particular, who had caused the injuries. He again suggested that the wound be dressed, but the fakir would have none of it, and announced his intention of departing to join brethren of his,
whom he had arranged to meet in Ahmedabad. Gandhi made no objection and, having assured himself that his queer guest was fit enough to go, took him to the Congress leaders, who expressed their sympathy for his injury and threw various coins into his bowl. Wallace rolled up the money with the other he had collected in a corner of his loin-cloth, salaamed deeply and departed, being escorted to the gate by the courteous Gandhi.

Wallace estimated that it must have been long after three in the afternoon when he left the Ashram. Although the cool season, it was very warm in the open. The sun beat down on his unprotected head, and caused him to speculate uncomfortably on the possibility of sunstroke afflicting him, while the hot, dusty road burnt the soles of his bare feet with every step he took. It was a very weary man who eventually arrived in the neighbourhood of the hotel where, as an Afghan, he had taken a room. But now a new problem beset him. It had been easy enough in the early hours of the morning to slip out without being seen. It was a much more difficult matter to get in. Two Mohammedans sat close to the door sharing a
hookah
, a vendor of sweetmeats had propped up his stall close by, and was lazily waving the flies away with a dried palm leaf, while the narrow little street was crowded with pedestrians. A thought struck him. He remembered that his room overlooked a lane at the back devoted to bullocks and goats. It was on the first storey, and it might be possible to climb in.

He found the lane after twice losing his way and almost his patience as well. The bullocks were away on their lawful occasions and, except for a few goats, and a woman engaged in removing unwelcome intruders from a child’s head, the place was deserted. The woman and child, to his delight,
moved hastily away at the sight of him, and he stood and gazed upwards calculating which was his room. He quickly found it, and muttered an exclamation of relief when he saw that the window was open as he had left it. An old bullock-cart wheel lay close by. This he raised with an effort and leant against the wall. Climbing up he found he could reach the window sill quite easily. Then with his one hand – a feat of strength he had often been called upon to perform before – drew himself up, and climbed into the room.

Once inside he looked out again to make sure that he had not been observed, but there was still nobody about. The sight of the beggar’s bowl lying where he had left it, when raising the wheel, caused him to smile. It was a pity he could not have retained it; he would have liked to have kept it as a memento of the day when he became a fakir.

Like most native hotels the bathing arrangements were sadly inadequate, but he did not bother to do anything but remove the paint and stain from his face, which he lightly tinted afresh to resume the character of the Afghan. He bathed the stump of his arm carefully, and was relieved to find that, though it was badly gashed, it showed no signs of suppuration. Fixing on the artificial limb, however, was a painful ordeal, and he grimaced several times before it was in place and fairly comfortably arranged. A quarter of an hour later he had his meagre belongings carried to a tonga, paid his bill and drove to the hotel where Carter awaited him. He found an anxious young man pacing his sitting room who, at the sight of him, gave a great cry of relief, and started to ask questions and apologise for the incident of the morning in the same breath. Wallace held up his hand.

‘Pay off the tonga like a good chap,’ he requested, ‘and tell
the driver to bring my goods and chattels in here. Then order the biggest bath the hotel has ever known.’

Carter carried out instructions, and ten minutes later Sir Leonard was lying in his bath feeling a marvellous sense of relief and well-being.

‘Thank God, I am beginning to feel clean again,’ he murmured. He eyed the discarded loin-cloth and the heap of odd coins lying scattered on the table. ‘Quite a profitable day,’ he decided. ‘If I ever get hard-up I shall have to adopt the profession of sadhu.’

Later, in spotless linen and European clothes, which Carter had been carrying round for him, he lay back in a long chair, and gratefully sipped the tea his assistant had thoughtfully ordered for him.

‘It’s been a beastly ordeal, Carter,’ he admitted in reply to a remark from the other, ‘but it has been worth it. And if you apologise again for toppling me over so beautifully, I’ll – I’ll send you back to Scotland Yard. Where’s the book of doom?’

Carter opened a suitcase, took out a steel box, which he unlocked, and produced the volume in which Sir Leonard had written detailed information concerning his investigations in India. For half an hour the latter sat and wrote rapidly; then returned his fountain pen to a pocket and handed the book back to the young Secret Service man.

‘Lock it away, Carter,’ he directed; ‘it’s precious now.’

At seven o’clock exactly a large car drew up in the compound of Mr Gandhi’s Ashram, and Sir Leonard Wallace descended. Carter remained with the bags for, after his interview with the Mahatma, it was Wallace’s intention to depart for Delhi. He was received courteously, and spent over an hour talking to the
Indian demagogue. None of the other leaders were present, and Sir Leonard presumed that they had already departed for their various headquarters. At last he rose to go.

‘I prefer you as an Englishman, Sir Leonard,’ remarked Gandhi as they shook hands.

‘I rather prefer myself in that capacity,’ admitted Wallace. ‘By the way, my secretary is very apologetic over an incident that happened this morning. He lost his temper with a beggar, he informs me, and knocked the poor fellow down.’

‘Ah, yes,’ replied Gandhi, ‘it was an unfortunate accident. Strangely enough the sadhu had also lost his left arm. Now, if you could have brought yourself to adopt a disguise of that nature, even I might have been deceived.’

‘God forbid!’ returned Wallace fervently.

Gandhi laughed.

‘You Englishmen are a lot too fastidious,’ he declared. ‘It would do you good to experience some of the wretchedness and poverty that is so prevalent in India. I could almost wish to see the immaculate Sir Leonard Wallace transformed into a religious mendicant, if only for a day.’

‘I don’t think that is very kind of you, Mr Gandhi. Well, goodbye. I am delighted to have made your acquaintance.’

‘But not so delighted, I imagine,’ returned the Mahatma with a sly smile, ‘as you would have been had you succeeded in imposing on me, and perhaps discovering thereby rather more than it is good for you to know at present.’

Wallace shrugged his shoulders.

‘That is a matter of opinion,’ he said. ‘I shall always treasure the remembrance that I have been a welcome guest your Ashram.’

On the way to the station he sat for most of the time deep in thought, but once or twice smiled quietly to himself.

‘Our work is done, Carter,’ he observed at length. ‘Thanks to Gandhi’s firm belief in the fastidiousness of an Englishman, we know exactly what the Congress will do. It may be a year, two years, even more before the campaign of civil disobedience commences, but government will know what to expect, and no matter how well organised it may be it will be a failure.’

History is proving the accuracy of Sir Leonard’s forecast.

His Majesty’s Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs stroked his greying moustache and frowned. He was confronted with a problem which he regarded as serious, and the well-dressed, slightly built man standing on the hearthrug with his back to the fire was not, according to the Minister, giving that attention to the matter which it required. In fact his manner was almost flippant, though it must be confessed that the look in the steel-grey eyes was anything but frivolous.

‘Am I to understand that you are not interested in this affair?’ asked the Foreign Secretary.

‘On the contrary I am intensely interested,’ was the reply; ‘but as you have merely stated that there is a mission on its way to England from the King of Afghanistan, and that you are anxious about its safety, you haven’t exactly caused me to tremble with excitement.’

‘
You
tremble with excitement!’ echoed the Secretary of State scoffingly. ‘I should like to see such a phenomenon. It would
be a relief to discover that you are subject to human emotions sometimes.’

Sir Leonard Wallace smiled.

‘You libel me,’ he protested. ‘Few people are more demonstrative than I. But let us leave personalities alone, shall we? I’m a busy man, and I want to know what you’re anxious about.’

‘Sit down and listen.’

The Chief of the Secret Service obediently took a chair, and leant forward in an attitude of attention.

‘I’ll tell you all I know,’ went on the Cabinet Minister. ‘The King of Afghanistan, surrounded as he is by rebels and enemies of all kinds, decided to ask our help in safeguarding his throne. In return he offers us certain important rights and concessions. What they are I do not know, but his requests and proposals are embodied in official documents which are now on their way to this country care of a trusted emissary. This gentleman is travelling by a P&O mail boat and, as far as Port Said, had no reason to suspect that he was in danger. Since the steamer left that port, however, his cabin has been twice ransacked, and yesterday his life was attempted. By great good fortune he warded off the attack and with the help of a steward, succeeded in capturing his assailant, who is now in irons.’

‘What nationality is the fellow?’

‘I have no information about him at all. The ship reaches Marseilles early the day after tomorrow. Can you send someone to meet him there and accompany him to London?’

‘I’ll make arrangements,’ nodded Sir Leonard. ‘By way, is he travelling alone?’

‘No; he has a secretary and a servant with him.’

‘What is his name?’

The Minister looked through some papers.

‘General Said Ullah,’ he announced after a short delay.

‘Have you any reason to suspect that there is a party in Afghanistan antagonistic to the Amir’s designs?’

‘No; but since his return from his European tour, he has, as you are aware, roused a great deal of resentment and opposition by his reforms. Afghanistan is an intensely conservative country, and some bitterness has been caused among certain sections of his people, by the sudden changes he has brought into operation.’

‘Sudden,’ commented Wallace drily. ‘He has been altogether too drastic. He is endeavouring to change the whole structure of Afghan society. In a few weeks he has ordered women to emerge from seclusion and doff the veil, impose new codes and taxes, prescribed the co-education of boys and girls, forbidden officials to practise polygamy, and ordered European dress for the people of Kabul. Do you imagine that Afghans with their hatred for any sort of innovation can at a moment’s notice adapt themselves to revolutionary changes of that nature? Naturally there is bitter opposition. Afghanistan is not Turkey, neither is the Amir Mustapha Kemal Pasha. There will be trouble before very long and, unless I am greatly mistaken, he will soon find himself without a throne. Personally I think it would be as well if Britain did not interfere. What use will rights and concessions, guaranteed by him, be to us when he is driven from his kingdom? And short of lending him a British army to maintain his power, and aid him in carrying out his reforms at the point of the bayonet, I don’t see how you can help him safeguard his throne. To do such a thing would not only be impolitic, it would be gross and unwarranted interference in the internal affairs of a country over which we exercise no control.’

‘You’re right of course,’ agreed the Statesman, ‘but proposals must be put before the Cabinet and properly entertained. They may well be worthy of consideration, and perhaps it will be possible to render him assistance without, in any way, committing ourselves, or intervening in matters outside our purview.’

Wallace clicked his tongue impatiently.

‘If I were a member of the Cabinet,’ he remarked, ‘I would have nothing to do with a ruler who has shown such utter lack of foresight, tact, and statecraft.’

‘You mean you would refuse to negotiate with him?’

Sir Leonard inclined his head.

‘I would refuse to negotiate with him,’ he repeated firmly. ‘It has been said that, during his visit to Russia, he was immensely impressed by the people, the country, and the government. Why didn’t he seek help from the Soviet? The two countries are in an ideal position to make a friendly alliance. Of course we shouldn’t have liked it, but it seems a reasonable enough proposition. I daresay the Soviet will hate the idea of an understanding being brought about between Great Britain and Afghanistan, when—by Jove!’ he interrupted himself; then stopped.

‘What’s the matter?’ demanded the Minister.

Wallace laughed.

‘It suddenly occurred to me,’ he observed, ‘that the man who searched the envoy’s cabin and attacked him may be an agent of the Soviet. Perhaps Russia has taken a hand, and is determined to prevent any negotiations taking place between the Amir and Britain.’

The Secretary of State looked thoughtful.

‘I wonder if you are right,’ he murmured. ‘It may well be that Russia has an inkling of what the Amir’s proposed concessions
consist, and that they do not meet with the approval of the Soviet.’

‘It is very likely indeed,’ nodded Sir Leonard. He chuckled. ‘Somehow I have a feeling,’ he observed, ‘that I am about to try conclusions once again with my old friends from Moscow.’

The Foreign Secretary made a grimace.

‘The worst of you fellows of the Secret Service,’ he grunted, ‘is that you are always looking for trouble.’

‘It happens to be our job,’ was the calm rejoinder.

‘Well, I suppose I can rely upon you to see that this Afghan envoy comes through safely with his despatches?’

Wallace nodded his head.

‘Yes,’ he asserted, ‘I think you can rely upon that, provided, of course, that he gets off the boat at Marseilles without losing his life or his precious papers.’

Sir Leonard walked across to the building which housed Great Britain’s Intelligence Service, in a decidedly thoughtful frame of mind. Instead of entering his own office he sauntered along the corridor to the room occupied by Major Brien. He found the latter sitting at his desk, a great pile of reports in front of him, an ash tray, full to the brim with cigarette ends, by his side. His fair hair, going a little thin on top these days, was ruffled as though he had been running his fingers through it. He looked up with a frown which changed to a smile when he recognised his visitor.

‘Hullo,’ he greeted. ‘Have you come to invite me to lunch?’

‘Not to my knowledge,’ was the reply. ‘Are you becoming polite?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You don’t generally wait for invitations.’ The speaker threw himself into a chair, shook his head disdainfully at the box of
cigarettes pushed across to him, and commenced to fill the pipe which he had drawn from his pocket. ‘Would you like to go to Marseilles, Bill?’ he asked.

‘I should hate it,’ was the prompt reply. ‘Why?’

‘Because you’re going.’

‘Oh, am I? When, why, and wherefore?’

Sir Leonard explained.

‘I want you to go,’ he concluded, ‘because we’re frightfully short-handed. Only Maddison and Cousins of the experts are at headquarters just now, and they may be wanted at any moment for that Irish business. I can’t very well send an inexperienced man, because it seems to me that there may be trouble to meet. There remains only you.’

Brien grunted.

‘Since when have I become a blessed nursemaid?’ he grumbled. ‘Who’s interested in Afghanistan anyway?’

‘We are at the moment. As a matter of fact I have an idea that our old friends of the Soviet are busy once more.’

‘You think that the fellow they put in irons is an agent of the
OGPU
?’

Wallace nodded.

‘If so,’ he remarked, ‘your job won’t be so easy as it seems. You may have a pretty sticky passage getting the envoy safely to London.’

The good-looking man seated on the other side of the desk began to appear more cheerful.

‘That sounds better,’ he remarked. ‘Life has not been very exciting lately. When do you want me to leave?’

‘The boat docks in Marseilles early the day after tomorrow. You’ll be in time if you fly to Paris tomorrow morning and catch
the
rapide
. But perhaps you’d prefer to fly all the way?’

Brien shook his head.

‘No,’ he decided; ‘I like to save the department’s money when I can. An air liner to Paris and the
rapide
will be good enough for me.’

Wallace laughed.

‘No wonder you’re going bald, Billy,’ he observed. ‘Virtue is forming a halo and pushing the hairs out.’

Brien felt the top of his head ruefully.

‘Can’t understand why I’ve gone thin like this,’ he uttered.

‘Try a little olive oil,’ advised Wallace still smiling.

‘It’s all very well for you to grin. What about your grey hairs?’

‘I am honest enough to admit that age is creeping on me,’ was the retort. ‘I don’t pretend to regard the grey hairs with wondering surprise as you do your bald patch.’

Preferring not to rush matters, Brien altered his arrangements somewhat, and flew to Paris that afternoon, catching the evening
rapide
for Marseilles. On arrival he put up at Hôtel de Louvre et Paix to await the arrival of the P&O mail boat. He had never been particularly fond of Marseilles, but he passed the time pleasantly enough and, after dining, went to the opera. Later he entered a crowded café in the Rue de Rome, and sat for an hour listening to the orchestra and watching the gay
habitués
seated round him. Afterwards he strolled down the Cannebière now almost deserted, and had nearly reached his hotel, when a burly man stepped from the shadows and accosted him.

‘Pardon me, Monsieur,’ he apologised. ‘May I request the great favour of a light for my cigarette?’

Brien obligingly struck a match, and held it towards him. It seemed as though his action had been expected as
a signal, for immediately a closed-in car drew in silently to the kerb, two men stepped out and, before the Englishman quite realised that treachery was afoot, a length of lead piping descended on his head with crushing force, his knees gave way, and he sagged to the ground unconscious. At once the three conspirators picked up and bundled his body into the car, which turned and swung rapidly up the Cannebière. The attack had been so well organised, and so quickly executed, that the few people in the vicinity had noticed nothing amiss. There had been nobody close enough to see distinctly what had happened. The vehicle sped along the Boulevard de la Liberté and stopped at the Gare St Charles, where one of the men got out and disappeared into the station. Thence with glaring headlights it tore out of Marseilles, taking the broad road that leads to Arles.

Prompt to time the great liner from Bombay glided alongside her wharf, gangways were erected, and passengers, most of them bronzed Englishmen on leave from India, with here and there a sprinkling of Hindus or Mussulmans visiting Europe, took their places in the P&O special train. A well-dressed man with a carefully trimmed moustache went on board, and asked for General Said Ullah. He was taken by a steward to the smoking room where the quiet-faced Afghan was waiting with his secretary and, handing a card to the envoy, introduced himself as Major Brien of the British Intelligence Department.

‘I was expecting you, sir,’ stated the general in excellent English. ‘A telegram from your Foreign Office informed me that you would meet me and escort me to London. I am very glad to make your acquaintance.’

He seemed greatly relieved at the arrival of the supposed British
officer, and talked merrily as they disembarked. He spoke about the manner in which he had been attacked on board ship almost as though it were a joke.

‘My assailant,’ he remarked, ‘will be taken on to London and tried there. I am afraid he will not like the extra week at sea.’

‘In order that there can be no fear of further molestation, General,’ said the man impersonating Major Brien, ‘I have arranged to take you by air to London. Your secretary and servant can follow with your luggage by train. Is that quite agreeable to you?’

‘Quite, thank you,’ was the reply. ‘I shall enjoy the trip very much.’

It was thus arranged, and he entered a car that was waiting and, with his companion, was conveyed to the flying ground. There they climbed into a large black and white monoplane, which took off immediately and headed north. It was merely a speck in the sky when a motor car, furiously driven, arrived at the aerodrome. Brien and another man sprang out before it had quite pulled up, and immediately interrogated the authorities concerning the Afghan general and his escort. Their dismay was great when they learnt that they had arrived a few minutes too late. Brien, pale of face, and still wearing evening clothes, was almost in despair – he had not properly recovered from the blow he had received and felt very shaky. The man with him, a high official of the Sûreté, was inclined to shrug his shoulders and take no further interest in the affair, but the Englishman soon had him actively engaged again.

‘An aeroplane,’ he cried. ‘I want the fastest machine you’ve got! You can use your authority to have one placed at my disposal, Monsieur, can’t you?’