Wallace of the Secret Service (Wallace of the Secret Service Series)

by Alexander Wilson

  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?’

  The police officer spoke rapidly to the man in charge, who replied that there would be no machine available for at least half an hour. A young man, standing by, listened to the conversation with great interest; then stepped forward and bowed to Brien.

  ‘You desire to catch that monoplane, I understand, M’sieu,’ he remarked. ‘Perhaps you will do me the honour of permitting me to take you after it in my aeroplane. I am the Comte de Vérac at your service, and I keep my own machine here.’

  ‘By Jove!’ exclaimed Brien. ‘Do you mean that?’

  ‘Most certainly. You are in trouble, and it is so unusual to see an Englishman in trouble that I am sure something serious has happened.’

  ‘You’re quite right,’ Brien informed him, speaking rapidly. ‘I am from the British Foreign Office. I came to Marseilles to meet an Afghan envoy who is carrying despatches to London. He has been kidnapped, and only God knows what will happen to him.’

  ‘Mon Dieu! That is bad. Come, M’sieu!’

  He set off at a run towards a hangar. Brien and the police official followed him. A beautiful Clermont was wheeled out by several mechanics who had dashed up and, at a word from the Comte, busied themselves in getting the machine ready. Apparently the young man was very popular, to judge from the willingness with which every order he gave was obeyed. He had a pair of twinkling brown eyes and a most engaging smile.

  ‘Do you think you can catch them?’ asked Brien anxiously, as he donned the flying coat, helmet and goggles handed to him.

  ‘Of course,’ was the proud response. ‘My Gloire d’Avignon is one of the fastest machines in France.’

  ‘But we can’t rescue the envoy in mid-air. How do you think we can get hold of him?’

  ‘They must descend sometime, M’sieu,’ smiled the Comte. ‘We will follow until they do. Climb in!’

  Brien turned to the agent of the Sûreté.

  ‘Will you be good enough to see the manager of the Hôtel de Louvre et Paix, settle my bill,’ he handed him some money, ‘and ask him to despatch my belongings to the Foreign Office, London?’

  ‘Most certainly, M’sieu,’ promised the man courteously.

  Brien thanked him, and climbed into the machine.

  Rising to a great height, the Gloire d’ Avignon flew northwards, two pairs of anxious eyes watching eagerly for the monoplane. A fear that, as soon as it was out of sight of Marseilles, it may have changed its course, and now be flying in a totally different direction, worried Brien. If so there was no hope of rescuing the Afghan general, or of getting hold of the despatches he carried. The tremendous pace at which they were travelling exhilarated him, however, and helped him to regain a certain measure of optimism. He had never flown at such a speed before, and he found it very thrilling. His head still ached abominably, but he forgot all about the pain in the excitement of the chase.

  On the previous night, or rather during the early hours of the morning, his captors had taken him to an old ruined building on the outskirts of the small village of Lançon. There he had been gagged and bound, and left to his fate. It was unlikely that he would ever be discovered in such an out of the way spot and, for
all the men who had left him there cared, he would eventually die of starvation and exposure. But they had been a little careless in their confidence. When Brien regained his senses and discovered his predicament, he immediately set to work to find a means of removing his bonds. It was daylight before he succeeded and then, quite close by, he saw that part of the old wall of the building had broken sharply away, leaving a jagged edge. Slowly and laboriously he had rubbed the cord confining his wrists against it until at last it had been sawn through. Very soon after that he was free. He had wandered about for some time before he had reached the village; then had been lucky enough to find a man who owned a ramshackle car and, for a consideration, had taken him back to Marseilles. He had gone straight to the Sûreté, told his story and, accompanied by the agent, had driven to the docks, only to find that the envoy had been taken to the flying ground.

  Having twice missed the Afghan by such a small fraction of time, he was very troubled lest he should lose him altogether and, as the minutes sped by and there was still no sign of the monoplane, he almost began to lose hope. Suddenly a little chuckle of delight came to him through the speaking tube.

  ‘See, M’sieu,’ announced the Comte, ‘our quarry is ahead.’

  There was no doubt of it. Flying hundreds of feet below them, now shining in the sunlight, anon a mere dim outline wrapped in mist as it passed through the clouds, was the black and white monoplane. Brien’s spirits rose with a bound. He felt certain now that he would be able to rescue the Afghan general. The Comte reduced his speed and, dropping a thousand feet, followed with the other machine at a slightly higher altitude. Hour after hour went by, and the chase still continued, the monoplane showing no sign of landing. Brien began to feel exceedingly hungry. He had had no breakfast, and it was past lunchtime.

  The cheerful voice of the young Frenchman reached him. ‘Mon Dieu!’ it said, ‘your friends do not desire refreshment apparently. Me, I am both thirsty and hungry.’

  ‘So am I,’ returned Brien. ‘I’m awfully sorry to cause you to miss a meal in this manner.’

  The Comte laughed.

  ‘It is nothing to worry about,’ he answered. ‘I owe you an apology for not thinking to bring food with us.’

  He had hardly finished speaking when the machine ahead began to descend.

  ‘Ah!’ cried de Vérac. ‘We must land at the same time, so that he cannot take fright and rise again, or escape with your man before we can stop him.’

  ‘Where are we?’ asked Brien.

  ‘Close to Melun,’ replied the Frenchman.

  He went into a steep nose-dive, and the Englishman experienced one of the greatest thrills of flying. Suddenly, when he began to feel certain they would crash, the machine flattened out, and a few moments later gently touched the ground, rose slightly; then ran along smoothly on a perfect piece of turf. The Comte had made a wonderful landing, but Brien had no time for thoughts concerning the Frenchman’s skill. He quickly realised that the monoplane had reached a rendezvous. The field in which they had landed was surrounded by woods, and there was no sign of human habitation anywhere near by. In the distance was a gate, and two men with a motor car were waiting there. The black and white machine had stopped, and the Comte de Vérac brought his cleverly alongside. Thanking his stars that he had not been searched when taken to Lançon, Brien drew out his revolver, and climbed quickly to the ground. He found himself face-to-face with the burly man who had asked him for a match.

  ‘Hands up!’ he snapped.

  The man was apparently too surprised to resist. His arms went above his head, while an expression of baffled fury distorted his face. The startled eyes of the Afghan gazed at the scene from the aeroplane; a snarl that had something horribly animal-like in it came from the pilot, who began to climb to the ground.

  ‘Stop where you are!’ commanded Brien.

  The fellow took no notice and, without hesitation, the Englishman fired, the bullet passing within an inch or two of his head.

  ‘Next time,’ warned Brien, ‘I won’t be so kind.’

  He almost allowed his surprise to take him off his guard, when his eyes fully embraced the grotesque figure now standing snarling by the monoplane. Not more than four feet in height, it had long arms reaching to its feet; a pair of great teeth protruding on either side of its mouth had the appearance of fangs. In its flying coat, helmet and goggles it looked repulsive enough, without them it must have been a disgusting sight. Brien wondered if it were human.

  ‘What have we here?’ murmured a voice by his side. ‘Mon Dieu! Is it animal or man?’

  ‘It’s a terrible-looking thing, whatever it is,’ was the reply.

  ‘The people who were with the car,’ went on the Frenchman, ‘are now running this way. Shall I take them in hand, my friend?’

  ‘Have you a revolver?’

  ‘No, but I can manage without, I think.’

  ‘But they are sure to be armed. You have done so much for me; I cannot allow you to risk your life.’

  The Comte laughed.

  ‘You have no choice, because you—’

  He did not finish the sentence. Brien had allowed his attention to wander from the pilot during his conversation, with the result that the creature suddenly and furiously launched itself at him. He fired but missed and, in a moment, was rolling on the ground, the hideous thing on top of him. The Comte acted with great promptitude, bringing down a heavy spanner, which he had carried from his aeroplane, with terrific force on the head of Brien’s adversary. At the same moment the other man threw himself forward and endeavoured to grapple with him, but with a little laugh he stepped aside, neatly tripping the fellow.

  ‘Stay where you are,’ he commanded. ‘If you attempt to rise I will be compelled to hit you on the head also.’

  There was a sharp crack and a bullet hummed past his ear like an angry wasp. The two men from the car had arrived within shooting distance. Brien, in the act of rising from the ground, returned the shot to such good effect that one of the newcomers dropped his revolver and clasped his right arm. The Comte de Vérac laughed again.

  ‘We seem now to have the advantage,’ he observed coolly.

  He jumped aside, to avoid another bullet, and again Brien returned the fire, this time without success. Quickly the Frenchman bent and dragged to his feet the man he had tripped.

  ‘Resist, and you will realise what a steel spanner feels like,’ he threatened. ‘Now march!’ He had placed himself behind the fellow and, using him as a shield, made him walk forward. ‘Follow closely behind me, my friend,’ he added to Brien. ‘You will thus be able to shoot those others without much danger to us.’

  The manoeuvre was successful. Their one remaining armed antagonist fired twice, but the small Frenchman and Brien, who took care to stoop, were too well protected by their burly captive.

  ‘Throw your revolver down,’ shouted the Secret Service man, ‘or I will shoot.’

  The fellow took no notice, and tried another shot which passed so close to the individual, who had been forced into the position of a human shield, that the latter shouted out in mingled rage and terror. At the same time, Brien took careful aim and knocked the revolver out of the man’s hand. It was a beautiful shot, and the Comte de Vérac gave an exclamation of admiration. He stepped back a little, and he and his companion contemplated the three scowling faces before them.

  ‘It is a police matter this,’ he remarked. ‘What say you, my friend?’

  ‘We’ll search them and let them go,’ decided Brien. ‘I don’t want to be bothered with a court case now. I must get the Afghan envoy to London.’

  ‘Ah, yes. I was forgetting. Keep them covered.’

  He walked forward, picking up the two revolvers on the ground, and carefully searched the clothing of their adversaries. There were no other weapons, the burly man proving to be unarmed, which accounted for the fact that he made no great attempt at resistance.

  ‘Now go,’ ordered Brien, ‘and take that thing with you.’
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  He pointed to the prone body of the queer pilot. The two uninjured fellows walked to the creature and, picking him up, were about to carry him away when the Comte stopped them and insisted on searching the unconscious dwarf. All he found in his clothing was a small tube, shaped something like a stylo pen, and after glancing at it curiously, he replaced it.

  ‘Ugh!’ he murmured in disgust, ‘what a travesty of a human being this is. Take it away – it is indecent.’

  ‘What about the aeroplane?’ asked the wounded man sullenly.

  The Comte shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘Perhaps sometime you can come back and claim it,’ he observed, ‘but not when my friend and I are here. Go on; march!’

  Holding a revolver in either hand, the large spanner showing from the pocket of his coat, where he had placed it, he drove the men before him, and did not leave them until they had driven away in the car. Then he returned to Brien, who was busily engaged explaining matters to the astounded Afghan general. It was some time before the latter was convinced of his bona fides; then he was all gratitude to the men who had rescued him.

  ‘What would they have done with me?’ he wondered, as he climbed out of the monoplane.

  ‘They probably brought you to this lonely spot,’ returned Brien drily, ‘with the intention of murdering you and robbing you of your despatches.’

  The envoy looked distinctly startled.

  ‘And you have let them go!’ he exclaimed reproachfully.

  ‘My duty,’ the Englishman informed him, ‘is to get you to London as soon as possible. If I had handed the fellows over to the police, we should have been detained.’

  The Afghan nodded.

  ‘I understand,’ he said. ‘But who are these people?’

  ‘Can’t you guess?’ asked Brien; then added as the other shook his head: ‘Sir Leonard Wallace will, no doubt, inform you, when you see him in London.’

  With a broad smile on his face the Comte joined them.