Get Wallace!

by Alexander Wilson

  ‘They must have lured him away on some pretext or other, and hit him on the head while the other man took his place. They’re pretty clever, Maddison. Now the question is, where is the show-down, as the Americans would call it, going to take place? Was I followed?’

  Maddison nodded.

  ‘Three men in a Buick,’ he informed his chief. ‘They did not keep very close behind you, or I would have been here sooner.’

  ‘Where are they now?’

  ‘Went on ahead, sir. I daresay they’re lurking somewhere along the road.’

  ‘Well, look here, I’m going to contrive, if possible, to get captured. That seems the only way to find their headquarters without a long search that will possibly take weeks, and thus mean our losing the game. They’ve obviously abducted Johnson in order to get me into their power. Well, we’ll let ’em, but don’t lose sight of my car, if you can help it. As soon as you’ve discovered where they’ve taken me, you must raid the place.’

  Maddison nodded somewhat sombrely.

  ‘Perhaps they have no intention of capturing you, sir,’ he reminded his chief. ‘It is far more likely that they intend to shoot you offhand, isn’t it? They have already tried twice today to kill you, you know.’

  ‘You may be sure that I am not going to let myself be assassinated, if I can help it, Maddison. If things begin to look too ugly, I think I can contrive to escape them. They are not likely to be acquainted with the peculiarities of my car.’

  Maddison smiled.

  ‘Why not let Reynolds or Cunliffe hide in the luggage compartment, sir?’ he suggested.

  Wallace shook his head.

  ‘There’s only room for one there, and it’s possible I may want to use it myself. Don’t worry about me. Everything will be all right so long as you don’t let my car out of your sight. My driver is probably waiting by now. Go and ascertain if he is suspicious of your car or not.’

  Maddison left the lounge to return presently with the information that the fellow masquerading as Johnson was standing by the limousine waiting for his passenger to continue the journey. He had taken no interest in the other car beyond a casual glance or two. Sir Leonard expressed his satisfaction, finished his drink, and went out. The driver opened the door for him.

  ‘Now no more stops till we reach Sittingbourne railway station,’ remarked the Chief of the Secret Service. ‘Beastly night, isn’t it?’

  The fellow mumbled something. Apparently he was not too sure of himself, possibly because he had had no opportunity of ascertaining the manner in which Johnson spoke to his employer. He was not to know that they were on rather unusual terms for master and servant. Wallace had a habit of treating those in his employ more as friends than inferiors. He switched off the interior lights, and made himself comfortable on the well-padded seat.

  The car splashed its way through the muddy streets of Chatham without incident. There were few people about, the wildness of the night keeping at home all but those whom business or necessity compelled to be out of doors. The Sittingbourne road was practically deserted, an omnibus being the only vehicle to be met with over a stretch of two or three miles. The rain was now falling heavily, the wind lashing it furiously against the car as though overcome with rage that its pitiless force should be defied by man. The glaring headlights appeared to lose a considerable amount of their power in that storm; the electric screen-wiper, working rapidly, was unable to keep the glass clear. The man, sitting huddled up over the wheel, his eyes aching with the strain of attempting to keep the road ahead in view, was finding his job well-nigh beyond him. Inside sat Sir Leonard Wallace in comparative comfort, ever on the alert, allowing an occasional smile to appear on his lips at the realisation of his driver’s distress.

  Suddenly, about a mile from Sittingbourne, they came upon a man standing in the road frantically waving his arms. They were scarcely a dozen yards away when the driver first saw him, and applied his brakes so hastily that the car skidded, coming to a dead stop barely more than a foot from a deep ditch that ran along the left-hand side of the road. Full in the glare of its lights could be seen another car lying on its side, its bonnet half buried in the mud. Sir Leonard at once recognised it as a Buick, and it immediately flashed into his mind that the accident had been staged, and with such realism that his suspicions would not be aroused.

  ‘No need to allow myself to be captured after all,’ he reflected. ‘They’ll have to use this car – it would take hours to move the other.’

  His mind was made up at once. The limousine had hardly stopped, when his finger sought for and found a knob cunningly concealed under the arm of his seat. He watched the spurious Johnson descend from the car, and join the men in the road – there were now three of them. With much waving of arms, they appeared to be explaining how the accident had happened. Feeling quite assured that his movements could not possibly be seen, Wallace pressed hard on the button, at the same time rising from the seat, which ascended rapidly until it was quite two feet from the floor. Through the aperture thus formed Sir Leonard promptly crawled into the large luggage compartment. Once there, he pushed down a small lever which, to the eyes of the uninitiated, would have merely appeared to be part of the hinge that enabled the door of the baggage chamber to be opened. The sliding panel and the seat descended into place with a click. Wallace had had the bodywork of the car constructed with an eye to just such a contingency as this. The luggage compartment, a good deal larger than is usual, was part of and not additional to the body. Inside there was ample room for a man to sit comfortably, while air was admitted by two small and cunningly hidden ventilators. A simple micro-phonic device enabled a person concealed therein to hear practically every sound in the tonneau. There were other secrets in that limousine known only to Sir Leonard, Johnson, and one or two others, while its powerful engine was the pride of its builders, the famous Rolls-Royce Company.

  Sir Leonard settled himself as comfortably as he could on a rug, and waited for eventualities. Two or three minutes went by; then he distinctly heard a door open.

  ‘These gentlemen,’ commenced a voice in admirable imitation of Johnson’s tones, ‘have had an accident, as you will have observed, sir. They ask me to—’

  The speaker broke off with an exclamation not in the ex-soldier’s voice. Wallace heard a click as the lights in the interior of the car were switched on.

  ‘He’s not here!’ cried the man in incredulous tones.

  Various exclamations of a distinctly forcible nature came from his companions, after which there was a significant silence for some seconds. Wallace, picturing four amazed faces staring into the empty car, smiled to himself.

  ‘He’s smelt a rat, and hopped it,’ presently observed one of the others. ‘What are we going to do now?’

  ‘How the devil could he have got out?’ came in exasperated accents, obviously from the fellow who had impersonated Johnson. ‘We should have been bound to have seen him.’

  ‘I don’t mean here. He must have jumped out while you were coming along.’

  ‘Rot! We travelled too fast for that – he’d have been killed or badly injured, if he’d tried it.’

  ‘How about when you were coming through Chatham?’ asked another voice. ‘You must have slowed down then.’

  ‘Not enough to enable him to land safely.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ persisted the other, ‘after you had stopped at that road house, he got out again when you thought you had shut him in.’

  ‘Why should he do that?’

  ‘How do I know? He’s gone anyway, and there’ll be the devil to pay when the guv’nor knows.’

  ‘I tink Mr Hepburn are for it,’ put in a fresh voice in distinctly foreign tones.

  ‘Shut up, Ibsen. I don’t see how I am to blame. I’ve done my job, and it’s been the trickiest piece of work I’ve ever tackled.’

  ‘Well, it seems to have come unstuck,’ was the dry remark of one of the others. ‘Obviously you didn’t take him in. We’d better get on – I don’
t relish hanging round here in this storm, I’m soaked to the skin now.’

  ‘I’ve come to the conclusion that you’re right, Danson,’ came slowly from the driver. ‘He must have got out again at that pub. Another car arrived while we were there. I didn’t take much notice of it at the time, but I wouldn’t mind betting now that it was one of his. He probably had it following us. You were spotted, and that’s why he did the disappearing act.’

  ‘Perhaps he still follow,’ remarked the foreigner.

  There was silence. They were apparently engaged in straining their eyes in an effort to see back along the road through the darkness and rain, for, after some time, one observed that there was not a thing in sight.

  ‘Fool,’ snapped Hepburn, ‘if we’re being tracked, you can be damn well certain that they’re lying in wait somewhere along there with their lights out. We can’t see them, but they can see us.’

  ‘Why don’t they come along, and try to arrest us then?’ asked one of the others.

  ‘Because they’re after bigger game than us. Bundle in, all of you, we’ll have to leave the bus where it is – blasted nuisance now that you upset it – I suppose there is nothing about it to give a clue of any sort?’

  ‘Not a thing,’ was the reply. ‘It was carefully searched before we started and, as it was a stolen car, it can’t be traced to us.’

  ‘Mr Ictinos can’t get sore about tat, anyvay,’ remarked the man called Ibsen. ‘He it vas ordered us to ditch eet.’

  ‘That’s a consolation,’ grunted Hepburn. ‘You come in the front with me, Swede. Danson, you and Farrell sit in the back, and keep your eyes skinned. If they’re after us, they’ll have to show a light or crash to kingdom come. We’ll lead ’em a dance, and soon shake ’em off. This beauty’ll walk away from anything short of Campbell’s Bluebird.’

  ‘Damn risky, I call it, running round in a car like this,’ muttered one of the others. ‘It may be known to all the police in the country.’

  ‘Well, if they know the car, they’ll know the driver, won’t they?’ snapped Hepburn, ‘and I’m he. Jump in!’

  The limousine glided away from the derelict lying in the ditch, was soon tearing through the storm-racked night, the needle on the speedometer rising from forty to fifty, to sixty, eventually to reach seventy. In that weather the driver was taking a tremendous risk, and he knew it, but it was a risk well worth it for his own sake, for the ‘guv’nor’s’, and for the sake of his companions. White-faced sat the latter, the Swede with eyes shut that he dare not open, Damon and Farrell looking through the window at the back of the car at the headlights of the motor they now knew for certain was pursuing them. In the luggage compartment crouched Sir Leonard Wallace, aching in every limb, but smiling grimly to himself at this utterly futile effort to shake off the men of the Secret Service, for whether or not Maddison lost track of the Rolls-Royce, it was certain that he himself, unless some unforeseen occurrence took place, would be there at the end of the chase.

  Maddison, sitting by the side of Cunliffe, who was driving the other car, had his eyes glued on the tail light of the speedy vehicle he was following. He realised that his presence had been discovered, that the men ahead were endeavouring to shake him off, but his orders were to keep Sir Leonard Wallace’s car in sight, and that he intended to do until it was no longer possible. Cunliffe sat at the wheel like a graven image. The speedometer indicated a rapid advance from fifty to sixty; was still rising. The needle trembled over the figure seventy, began to fall back a little; then went forward to seventy-two. They had turned aside from Sittingbourne which was soon left far behind, were now on the Dover road.

  ‘She can’t stand the pace,’ shouted Cunliffe, endeavouring to make his voice heard above the combined roar of the elements and the engine. ‘They’re drawing away from us.’

  Maddison nodded. It was only too evident. They followed for a few miles farther, tearing through rain-drenched hamlets, avenues of naked trees bent almost double by the screaming wind, up desolate hills, down into valleys rendered gloomy and sinister-looking by the wildness of the night. The red light ahead grew ever smaller, vanished for a time, showed again dimly for a fleeting minute and at last disappeared altogether. Maddison gave orders to the young man by his side, and the car gradually slowed down, presently coming to a stop.

  ‘There are few cars in England could catch Sir Leonard’s when it is all out,’ he remarked, apparently not greatly concerned by his failure to keep the Rolls-Royce in sight. ‘We’re not beaten yet, though. If I’m not mistaken they’ve been leading us away from their destination to put us off the scent. There is still a chance that we’ll be able to pick them up again.’

  At his orders the car turned, was presently speeding back towards Sittingbourne. In the meantime, Hepburn was continuing to risk the lives of his companions and himself, not to mention that of the passenger they did not know was with them, in reckless fashion. His skilful driving, combined with a great deal of luck, saved them from disaster on several occasions. The storm had rendered the roads comparatively free from traffic, but once he shaved a motor coach by a quarter of an inch; missed a steam roller, laid up at the side of the road for the night, by a similar narrow margin; avoided a skid at the bottom of a hill, which would have spelt certain death, by sheer good fortune. Luck was certainly with him. His companions had become almost paralysed with fear, but none of them attempted to get him to slow down. They knew only too well the fate in store for them, if they fell into the hands of the dreaded men of the British Secret Service.

  The car was travelling at over eighty miles an hour when, at last, Danson’s quivering voice through the speaking tube informed Hepburn of the fact that their pursuers had been shaken off. Even then the latter continued driving at the same headlong pace for some minutes longer, and it was not until another five miles had been covered that he began to slow down. The relief to Sir Leonard Wallace, cooped up in the narrow confines of the baggage compartment, was immense. Every nerve and muscle in his body was aching, his head throbbing fiercely, his breath coming in laboured gasps. It had been one of the most painful experiences of his life; one which he certainly hoped would never be repeated. The speed of the car dropped to a mere crawl.

  ‘Are you certain we’ve done them?’ asked Hepburn, his voice sounding thin and tremulous from the strain he had undergone.

  ‘Absolutely,’ Danson assured him; ‘we lost them several miles back. It was just hell, Hepburn. I thought every second would be our last.’

  ‘So did I,’ came the grim response. ‘It was all very well for you fellows, but what about me? I’m all in. I never expected that blasted car to be able to hang on like that.’

  He put on the brakes, and stopped; sat for some time lolling over the wheel, his head resting on his arms. The Swede produced a brandy flask from his pocket, removed the stopper, and forced it into the other’s hand.

  ‘Drink,’ he advised. ‘Eet vill do you goot.’

  Hepburn accepted the invitation gratefully, handed back the flask half-empty.

  ‘That’s better,’ he coughed. ‘Pretty strong stuff that, Ibsen.’

  ‘Eet’s goot,’ agreed the Swede, taking a long drink himself. ‘Now vat ve going to do?’

  ‘Double back, of course. The guv’nor’ll be wondering what’s happened to us. I wish I could trust one of you fellows to drive; I’m absolutely cooked. If it wasn’t for the brandy, I wouldn’t be able to do it.’ He put his lips to the speaking tube. ‘Better continue to keep a look-out, Danson. We don’t want to risk being picked up again, and not realise it.’

  He seemed to know the country well, for he drove back another way. This time he was content to keep the speed down to the neighbourhood of thirty miles an hour, much to the satisfaction of Sir Leonard. By the time Sittingbourne was reached the rain had ceased, but the wind was still blowing a gale. The town was apparently asleep, but at the window of a house on the road to Sheppey, stood a man, who watched the car go by; then hurried to a small comp
act wireless apparatus on which he deftly tapped out a message in Morse. Maddison, sitting in his car, hidden behind a group of trees in close proximity to the Sheppey bridge, with earphones over his head, spelt out the message and smiled his relief.

  ‘They’re coming,’ he told Cunliffe. ‘Get ready to follow. It’s a good thing we were able to get in touch with Cartright.’

  He tapped out an assurance that he had received the communication; then, removing the earphones, fitted them into their place on the miniature wireless set before him. At a touch the whole slid into position flush with the instrument board, leaving no indication whatever that the car possessed any equipment of that nature.

  Before long the neighbourhood was illumined by the headlights of an approaching car. Trees, looking stark and naked, some bending almost double before the force of the howling gale, were thrown into sharp relief; the countryside appeared grim and ghostly; a tumbledown thatched cottage close to the bridge stood clear-cut in its depressing loneliness; the bridge itself showed up spidery and sinister-looking. Maddison shivered slightly, whether because he was cold, or on account of a vague foreboding which suddenly possessed him, he would have found it difficult to decide.

  Sir Leonard’s car swept by. Immediately the other drew out from its hiding place, and followed. Cunliffe, obeying orders, did not switch on his lights. Maddison had directed him to steer as far as possible by the glow spread by the lamps of the Rolls-Royce, and only to use his own headlights when it became absolutely necessary – a difficult task on any moon-shrouded night, but trebly difficult in that wintry and tempestuous darkness.

  It was a nerve-racking ordeal. The young Secret Service man sat at the wheel, his eyes strained ahead, his attention entirely taken up with this will o’ the wisp pursuit. Neither he, nor Maddison, nor Reynolds sitting in the back of the car, noticed the baleful eyes glaring at them from the shelter of the dilapidated cottage. None of them saw the revolver steadily raised at their approach. None of them could have heard the shot above the din and clamour of the gale. But Cunliffe suddenly sagged sideways, his nerveless hands slid from the wheel; the car swerved violently, made headlong for the parapet guarding the drop to rocks and water below. Before Maddison could raise a finger to save them, the machine collided violently with the weather-worn masonry, crumbling it to a heap of stone and rubble. For one sickening second it appeared to hang there; then toppled over, crashing to its doom.