Wallace of the Secret Service (34 page)

‘I didn’t expect you back so soon,’ he added, ‘Everything all right?’

Brien sank lazily into a chair, took a voluminous package from a pocket, and threw it across to the other.

‘As right as rain,’ he stated. ‘At first I thought I was going to be three weeks over the job but, as you see, I’ve done it in seventeen days.’

Wallace put the report in a drawer, which he locked.

‘I’ll go through it this afternoon,’ he promised; ‘at present I’m busy.’

‘What have you got there?’ asked his friend, helping himself to a cigarette.

‘Photos of a handsome man,’ was the reply.

‘Organising a male beauty contest?’

Sir Leonard laughed, and handed them across to the other.

‘Recognise them?’ he asked.

Major Brien studied them carefully; then handed them back.

‘No,’ he replied. ‘He’s a good-looker, whoever he is; intellectual and all that sort of thing. Who is he?’

‘Luis de Correa, the international crook!’

‘What? My hat! I’m a nice judge of faces, ain’t I? If I’d been asked I should have said the fellow was as straight as a die; a regular stickler for the straight and narrow, in fact.’

‘So should I,’ admitted Wallace, ‘which shows that faces are poor guides to character.’

‘All the same,’ insisted Brien, ‘although he may be a crook, I bet he’s a sportsman. What are you doing with the photographs? Has he been interfering in diplomatics?’

‘More or less,’ replied Wallace. ‘Remember the new naval gun, which experts agree will revolutionise naval warfare?’

Brien nodded.

‘You mean the beauty that fires a projectile clean through hard steel armour? Yes; I was present at the demonstration, if you remember.’

‘Well, the plans have been stolen from the Admiralty, and de Correa has them.’ He proceeded to tell the story of the theft. ‘If Scotland Yard had only let us know details sooner, our chances would have been better,’ he concluded. ‘I shall have a word or two to say to the Commissioner when I see him next.’

‘Things often get delayed when the Yard get their fingers in our pie,’ complained Brien. ‘The silly asses try to do without us, and get in a muddle; then we have to toddle along and extricate them. I’ve nothing to say against Scotland Yard, when it comes to hunting down criminals, but when those blokes start taking a hand in diplomatic intrigue and political crime, they’re like a lot of nursery kids.’

Wallace laughed.

‘You’re in an uncomplimentary mood today, Billy,’ he commented. ‘Clear off! Your sorrowing spouse will be wanting to see her hubby again, and I’ll get into trouble if I keep you.’

On his way home for luncheon, Sir Leonard’s car was held up in a traffic jam in Piccadilly Circus for some time, and he was beginning to get impatient at the delay, when he looked idly into the interior of a taxicab standing alongside waiting, like his own car, for the traffic constable’s white arm to go down. Abruptly he gave vent to an exclamation, sat back in his seat for a moment; then leant forward again, and took another and longer look at the occupant of the next vehicle. He felt certain now. Incredible though it appeared, the smartly dressed man in correct morning garb, sitting within a few feet of him, was Luis de Correa. Without hesitation he lifted the speaking-tube to his lips.

‘Johnson,’ he instructed his chauffeur, ‘when we get clear, let the taxi on your right go ahead and follow it. There’s a man in it I want. Understand?’

Johnson slightly nodded his head; then glanced carefully to his right. A few seconds later the clear signal was given and he obeyed instructions meticulously. They had not far to go. The taxi drew up outside the Ritz, and its occupant alighted, and hurried into the hotel, carrying a small black portfolio in his hand. Behind him went Sir Leonard Wallace. Luis de Correa spoke to a commissionaire, who nodded, called a boy, and gave the latter certain instructions. Watching from a chair conveniently close to a pillar, Wallace presently saw the boy reappear carrying a suitcase in either hand, which he carried out to the taxi. The Spaniard tipped the commissionaire, and was about to follow when Sir Leonard accosted him.

‘May I have a few words with you?’ he asked courteously.

The other stared at him in surprise, and the colour ebbed a little from his face.

‘You have the advantage of me, sir,’ he remarked in a wellmodulated voice with just a trace of accent.

‘I will soon explain who I am, if you will accompany me to a quiet spot where we can talk without being overheard.’

‘But I regret much I am in a hurry. Is it important what you have to say to me?’

‘Very. If you have no objection, we will drink a cocktail together in the lounge.’

With an impatient shrug of the shoulders, de Correa agreed, and accompanied Wallace to a secluded table at which they sat. With a word of apology the latter drew out a small pocket cheque book, and wrote rapidly on a form.

‘I am afraid I have run short of cash,’ he smiled. ‘I find the management here most accommodating.’ He called to a waiter, who evidently knew him. ‘Take this to the office, Jules,’ he directed, ‘and ask them to cash it for me.’

The man hurried off, and handed it to a clerk.

‘Sir Leonard Wallace wants cash,’ he explained.

The clerk looked casually at the small slip of paper in his hand; then stiffened, and his eyes opened wide in surprise. On the form was written:

Quickly recovering from his astonishment, the young man, who, like most Londoners, was very quick-witted, turned to the telephone. In the meantime Wallace had ordered two cocktails, and was talking rapidly of anything that came into his mind in an effort to gain time. Before long, however, de Correa made an impatient gesture, and interrupted him.

‘Yes, yes, señor,’ he protested, ‘but, as I have said, I am in a hurry. What is it you wish to say to me of importance?’

At that moment, a tall, lean man of cadaverous aspect walked up to the table, and looked straight at de Correa.

‘Well,’ he exclaimed, ‘if it ain’t José! Say, I guess I’m glad to see you.’

He held out his hand and, with a cry of delight, de Correa rose and grasped it.

‘My friend,’ he said, ‘this is a pleasant surprise. From where have you come?’

The other, an obvious American, led him a little aside.

‘Never mind that now,’ he whispered. ‘I don’t know what lay
you’re on; perhaps I’m butting in, but, in case you don’t know it, that guy you’re sitting with is the big noise of the British Secret Service.’

Luis de Correa showed no sign of agitation, instead he laughed heartily as at a joke, and clapped his friend on the back.

‘It is funny that,’ he chuckled. ‘Well so long, my friend. I will see you again some other time; no?’

The American nodded and strolled away, while Luis de Correa resumed his seat. Sir Leonard had not liked the interruption, though it had assisted in passing the time, and, as far as he could see, nothing had happened of an inimical nature to him. The cocktails had arrived, and he raised his.

‘To our better acquaintance, señor,’ he said.

The next moment he had dropped the glass, and was lying back in his chair choking for breath and, for the time being, completely and painfully blinded. The Spaniard had produced a small water pistol, and discharged the contents, consisting of ammonia, full into the face of the Englishman. As the latter fell back gasping, Luis de Correa leapt from his seat and, before any of the people at the other tables had quite grasped what had happened, was out of the lounge, through the entrance hall, and in his taxi, which drove away at once.

It was a long time before Wallace was able to breathe freely, and longer still before he could open his eyes with any degree of comfort. Several guests of the hotel and attendants had gone to his rescue, and he had been taken into a small room where he was solicitously attended to. The flying squad van arrived while his eyes were being bathed, and the inspector in charge quickly apprised of events. In a low voice, Wallace gave him the number of the taxicab and a few other details, and before long the whole
of the flying squad was scouring London for Luis de Correa.

Sir Leonard, his eyes still inclined to water at frequent intervals, eventually was able to escape from the kindly ministrations of the hotel staff. When he emerged into the noisy bustle of Piccadilly, his car was nowhere to be seen. He seemed in no way perturbed, however, and, refusing the offer of the door-keeper to call a taxi, walked to his house a hundred yards or so distant. Lady Wallace was lunching out, and he ate alone. Directly he had finished he rang up Maddison.

‘Have any reports come in?’ he asked.

Several had, but none of very great importance.

‘Deal with the rest yourself, Maddison,’ he instructed. ‘I shall probably leave for Madrid this afternoon. Inform Major Brien when he arrives, and ask him to take charge for a few days.’

He rang off and, calling his manservant, told him to pack a bag. He then telephoned to his brother-in-law, Cecil Kendal, a wing commander in the Royal Air Force stationed at Farnborough. It took him some time to get the connection, but at last he heard the voice of Kendal.

‘Can you get a couple of days’ leave?’ he asked.

‘I daresay. Why?’

‘I may want to go to Madrid this afternoon and, in preference to the usual official mode of asking for an RAF machine, I thought you might like to take me in your Puss Moth.’

‘Sounds very mysterious and thrilling,’ laughed Kendal. ‘Righto; I’m on. Where shall I pick you up?’

‘There is a chance that it may not be necessary for me to go after all. As soon as I know, I’ll telephone. In the meantime get your leave fixed up. It won’t do you any harm to have a spot of vacation.’

‘That’ll be all right. I tell you what I’ll do. I’ll fly up to Stag
Lane in half an hour or so. Ring me up there. If you don’t want me, I’ll mooch off on a little expedition of my own. Oh, by the way, how long do you expect to be in Madrid?’

‘I haven’t the vaguest idea. I may be a day, I may be a week. Perhaps I won’t stay in Madrid for long – may have to rush off somewhere else – but all I shall want you to do will be to take me there. You can be back early the day after tomorrow.’

He rang off, and went to his study to wait. Half an hour went by; then the butler entered to inform him that the chauffeur was waiting to see him.

‘Send him in at once, Sims,’ he directed.

Johnson hardly waited until he was in the room before commencing to apologise for driving away from the Ritz without his master, but Wallace cut him short.

‘That’s all right,’ he observed. ‘You followed the taxi, didn’t you?’

‘Yes, sir. When I saw the gentleman you were after run out of the hotel, as though in a state of agitation, jump into the taxi and drive away, I guessed there was something wrong, sir, so I thought you would wish me to follow.’

‘You were quite correct, Johnson. Where did he go?’

‘To Croydon, sir. Embarked on an air liner for France.’

‘He got away, did he?’

‘Yes, sir. I saw the labels on his bags, sir, when they were carried from the Ritz Hotel. They had “Palace Hotel Madrid” on them.’

‘Yes, Johnson, I saw that myself. You’ve done jolly well. Thanks very much. Go and have some food now; then be ready to drive me to Stag Lane Aerodrome.’

‘Very well, sir.’

As soon as the chauffeur had left the study, Wallace again went
to the telephone. This time he rang up Scotland Yard and asked to speak to the Commissioner.

‘Is that you, Wallace?’ came the voice of the police chief. ‘We haven’t traced de Correa yet. I’m damned sorry you let him get the better of you with that ammonia trick though.’

Sir Leonard laughed.

‘Aren’t you delighted you’ve found something to hold up against me?’ he commented. ‘Good old Scotland Yard. But it’s nothing to what I have against you.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Weren’t your men supposed to be watching all the ports?’

‘Yes; why?’

‘Did that include the airports?’

‘Naturally.’

‘Then, if I were you, I’d order every detective at the Yard to have his eyes tested and take to glasses. Luis de Correa left Croydon in an air liner, as bold as brass, about an hour ago. My chauffeur tracked him there, and saw him go. Not being a policeman, he couldn’t stop him. What are you going to do about it?’

A volley of words, sounding distinctly uncomplimentary, came from the other end of the line; then:

‘Where was he bound for?’

‘Paris and Madrid, but for the Lord’s sake don’t start telephoning to the police there. I’m off to Madrid myself presently.’ He was turning away when an idea occurred to him. ‘Send a wireless to the air liner, will you? Sign it Shaw, and address it to Almeida Suarrez, telling him to beware of the police at Le Bourget.’

‘What on earth for?’

‘Because the French police, at your instigation, will be watching
for him, and their eyes are probably not dim like those of your men. We don’t want Luis to be arrested by the French or any other police, since the English can’t do it. For the future, I think your motto had better be, “Leave it to the Intelligence Department” – I said
intelligence
.’

‘Oh, ring off!’ cried the exasperated Commissioner.

‘Exactly what I am about to do.’ He replaced the receiver on its hook, smiling broadly as he did so. ‘The ammonia trick, indeed,’ he murmured. ‘He’s probably sorry he ever mentioned that now. And, if I’m not mistaken, there’ll be other sorry people at Scotland Yard very shortly.’

He had still another telephone call to make, and that was to his own headquarters. He instructed Maddison to get a clear line through to
Lalére et Cie
in Paris, inform Lalére in code that Correa was crossing by air liner, and that he was to be met, but not interfered with, and followed wherever he went. In the event of his arrest by the police he was to be rescued, and under no consideration allowed to dispose of the plans. All communications were to be sent in code to Wallace in care of the agent in Madrid, who was to be informed that he would put up at the Palace Hotel there.