It was a long time before sleep came to Tommy Carter that night. His mind was so full of the interview with Modjeska, and the manner in which the latter had been deceived in him, that he remained very wide awake indeed for two or three hours. He can be forgiven if he felt elated at the success which had attended him. In one day he had accomplished all and more than Sir Leonard Wallace had hoped he would achieve. His gratification was, it is true, slightly tempered by the reflection that possibly there was a trap somewhere, but, search as he would into every word that had been spoken or incident that had happened since he had arrived at the hotel, he was unable to find any reason whatsoever why Modjeska should regard him as a danger that must be removed. Although it seemed too good to be true, the Pole, he was convinced, was thoroughly hoodwinked, and to such an extent that he had decided Carter was the very man to be useful to the society of which he had spoken. Even then he seemed to have acted with dangerous precipitation, but doubtless he was so convinced of the infallibility of his judgement of men, and the society was so anxious to have an agent in London, that the risk had, to his mind, been very small. Again, Carter would have to face rigid scrutiny from the other members of the committee of ten. If they were not entirely convinced that he was quite the individual Modjeska represented him to be, he would not only be rejected, but would be assassinated. He would not be permitted to return to England, possibly to divulge what he had learnt concerning the organisation. That was quite certain. The thought of being murdered in some remote part of the continent of Europe did not bother Carter, however. He knew that when he left England he would be closely followed by Sir Leonard Wallace and probably other members of the Secret Service as well.
He rose the next morning feeling very bright and cheery despite the little sleep he had had. He was still resolved to search Modjeska’s belongings, though the Pole had admitted so much to him that it seemed unnecessary. Still there was a possibility that he might find something of value. It would be a good idea, too, he thought to find out what was the number of the newcomer Grote’s room, and search that also. If the latter accompanied Modjeska on his visit to Shirland Road, he would be presented with a splendid opportunity to enter both bedrooms.
On entering the dining room for breakfast he was again subjected to a battery of hostile glances, but he took no notice whatever of his fellow guests. The sullen expression was again on his face, though he had allowed it to appear less aggressive and discontented. Modjeska and Grote sat at a table in the opposite corner of the room. Carter noticed that the latter subjected him to several sharp glances; was doubtlessly weighing him up. He surreptitiously studied the man, finding him to be a big, beefy-looking person with small, piglike eyes, broad nose and loose mouth in a countenance that can only be described as bloated. Carter decided he was a German, though his name might have been common to half a dozen races. There was no sign of Hawthorne, his absence supporting the view Carter had already formed that he was known to Grote and wished to avoid recognition.
After breakfast the Secret Service man planted himself in a corner of the lounge with some of the papers that had caused such a commotion the day before. He noticed with amusement that the Curzons, Spedding and Miss Simpson entered with the object, no doubt, of sitting there, but, on seeing him, departed again. He wondered if anybody else had ever made himself so thoroughly unpopular in such a short space of time. Modjeska and Grote came in and sat down for a little while within a few yards of him. The lounge then being occupied by the three only, Modjeska took the opportunity of whispering an introduction. Carter half rose, but the other motioned to him to resume his seat.
‘It is best you stay vere you are,’ he murmured, ‘in case anybody come in. Ve must not be seen talking to you like friends.’
Grote smiled, and Carter thought he preferred him without such a grimace. It caused him to look more brutal and uglier than ever.
‘I am glad to make your acquaintance, Mr Carter,’ he remarked in perfect English. ‘Ivan Modjeska has told me all about you, and I may say that I trust his judgement implicitly.’
‘He knows me vell, you see,’ put in the Pole with a self-satisfied smirk.
‘An agent of our great association is badly required in London,’ went on Grote, ‘and, if you are selected, you will find it a very good job, I assure you. But we require entire fidelity and obedience.’
‘You will get it,’ returned Carter. ‘You can trust me for that.’
‘Splendid. I feel already I am in agreement with my friend Modjeska about you.’
‘Thanks.’
They ignored him after that, and Carter took up his papers again. Before long they went out, Grote nodding to him as they passed by.
‘Tonight at eleven you vill expect me – yes?’ asked Modjeska.
‘I will be waiting. Don’t knock. Come right in. The door won’t be locked.’
Carter sat on until long after half past ten; then walked along to the office. Just outside hung a railway advertisement. Pretending to study this, he managed to glance at the open visitors’ book close by. Grote’s name was the last, and the number of his chamber nine. Satisfied, he ascended to his room. On the way up he had met no one. The doors of all the bedrooms were shut, which was fairly good evidence that the chambermaids had finished their work. They invariably leave doors open while engaged in tidying rooms. Of course one or more of the guests may have been inside, but Carter decided that it was unlikely. The weather was glorious, and it was hardly to be expected that people, the majority of whom were in London on pleasure, would be in their tiny bedrooms at eleven o’clock on such a morning. In any case he would have to risk the sudden appearance of one of the inmates. After all, it would not be much risk – he could always pretend to be knocking on the door he was endeavouring to open. Grote had accompanied Modjeska. He had seen them go out.
He remained in his apartment for ten minutes or so; then descended to the floor beneath. Modjeska’s room, number ten, was exactly opposite number nine, which was a fortunate circumstance. No doubt Modjeska had arranged it in order that his friend would be conveniently close. Carter smiled at the thought that Modjeska had little realised that he was also making it more convenient for the Secret Service man’s investigations. He stood on the landing listening for a few seconds; then went swiftly along to number ten, a bunch of skeleton keys held ready in his hand. Nobody disturbed him, and in less than a minute he was inside the room, closing the door behind him. He wasted no time, but set to work at once to make his investigations. Although locked, Modjeska’s suitcases presented no difficulty to him at all. They were quickly lying open, while he examined the articles within with the greatest care, always noting the exact position in which each lay in order to replace it as he found it. There was absolutely nothing to associate the Pole with an anarchist organisation. Carter drew a complete blank. As a matter of fact he had not expected to find anything, though he had hoped that there might have been a letter or document, which would perhaps give some indication of the society’s headquarters. The cases were locked again, and pushed back under the bed where they had previously been lying. He then turned his attention to the rest of the room. A suit of clothes and a dressing gown were hanging in the wardrobe, but the pockets were empty. There were some shirts, collars, and socks in the drawers of the dressing table, toilet articles on the top – nothing else. Carter gave one last look round to make certain that he was leaving no evidence of his presence about; then crossed to the door, and gently opened it. A cautious glance along the corridor assured him that he still had it to himself. He closed the door quietly behind him. Two or three minutes later he was safely inside Grote’s room.
The man from America had not troubled to unpack anything, apparently, except toilet articles and pyjamas. There was nothing in the wardrobe or the drawers. Carter found one suitcase difficult to open, but he managed it at last. To his surprise it was steel-lined; must have been very heavy. It contained bundles of American banknotes each of large denomination. After examining them, Carter calculated that there must have been at least three hundred thousand dollars in the bag. Was Grote leaving America for good, or was he carrying a contribution to the society’s funds from anarchists and communists in the United States? He was standing gazing down at the packages of notes when his whole body stiffened with consternation. Someone was inserting a key in the lock. As quick as thought Carter closed the case, pushed it under the bed and followed it himself, his revolver in his hand. There was no other hiding place in the room. The chances of his escaping detection were very small indeed, unless the person now opening the door happened to be a chambermaid. If it turned out to be Grote—! Carter almost groaned at the thought. All he had accomplished would be utterly thrown away, his efforts entirely wasted. Worse still, the anarchist organisation would be warned that efforts were being made to unmask it.
The door closed softly. Carter saw a pair of neatly shod feet – a man’s. Grote must have returned, though the Englishman felt that the feet hardly seemed to suit him. They were too small, too elegant. He would have expected the anarchist to have possessed rather ugly extremities – his hands were large and coarse-looking, Carter had not noticed his feet. A hand appeared and, catching hold of the case the Secret Service agent had opened, commenced to pull it out. It was a white, well-shaped hand, with well-manicured nails – most certainly not Grote’s. Who on earth, wondered Carter, could the intruder be? He was quickly to learn. The second suitcase was dragged out; then a face appeared, eyes glancing under the bed. It was the face of Wilmer Peregrine Huckleberry Hawthorne.
‘Well, this sure is a surprise!’ exclaimed the American coolly. ‘Guess you’d better come out, young man.’
Carter saw no point in remaining where he was; he was at a very big disadvantage under the bed, even with a revolver in his hand. He obeyed the American’s command, therefore, crawled out, and rose to his feet. Immediately he discovered that Mr Hawthorne also possessed a weapon, the barrel of which he pushed into Carter’s ribs. For the life of him the latter could not forbear a broad grin. Hawthorne’s eyes widened behind their large glasses.
‘We both have revolvers,’ chuckled the Englishman, ‘but neither of us dare use them. I don’t particularly want to use mine.’
‘Guess you’re right,’ commented the American. ‘They’re no darn good here – we’d sure bring the whole block along, anxious to see the body. We can’t fight it out either, that would make almost as much noise. I kinder feel we’d better talk this thing out.’
‘I suppose we’d better,’ agreed Carter. ‘But this is hardly the place for a confidential chat, is it? We might be disturbed just when we were getting interested in each other.’
‘You’ve said it,’ nodded Mr Hawthorne. He put his revolver away, an action that was copied by the other. ‘Say,’ went on the American, ‘what’s happened to you? You sorter look different.’
‘How do you mean – different?’ asked Carter.
Mr Wilmer P. H. Hawthorne scratched his head. ‘You don’t look the same guy as the one I tried to talk to yesterday morning.’
‘I am he,’ returned Carter, but he knew what the difference was. He was no longer cloaked in a disguise of sullenness and gloom. Somehow he felt vastly relieved that the intruder had turned out to be the American. He felt instinctively that he had little to fear from Hawthorne. ‘Where shall we go?’
‘I guess my room would do for a little pow-wow. It’s sure quiet, and I can mix you a highball. A drink is indicated, I reckon. This surprise meeting with you has perturbed me some.’ Carter smiled again. Hawthorne looked the least disconcerted of mortals as he stood there regarding his companion. The Englishman bent down, and was about to lock the suitcase, when the other stayed him. ‘So you’ve already opened it!’ he commented. ‘You’ve a nice, handy, little instrument there. Guess I’d like to take a peek inside that case if you’ve no objection.’ Carter opened it without hesitation, and the American gazed at the contents silently for a few seconds. ‘Gee!’ he remarked presently. ‘He sure has made a nice little collection of plunks. All right, Mr Carter, shut it up.’
The Englishman locked the case; then pushing it, with the other, back under the bed, rose to his feet. Hawthorne went to the door, opened it slightly, and glanced out. The way was clear, and he left the room, followed by Carter. The latter shut the door, making certain that it was properly fastened. The American led the way down the stairs, and walked to room number two on the first floor. He unlocked the door and stood aside for Carter to enter. The latter was surprised to find the apartment a good deal larger than his own. It was also better furnished, even boasting an armchair, and possessed two windows, which looked on to Waterloo Road, not that that was a very great asset. The view from Carter’s window, however, was distressingly bleak. A wilderness of drab walls, roofs, and chimney pots was his portion. Hawthorne opened the wardrobe, produced there from a bottle of John Haig, a soda siphon, and a glass. He mixed a drink for Carter according to the latter’s requirements.
‘What about yours?’ asked the Englishman, as he took the glass. ‘You want one more than I. You’re so perturbed you know.’
Hawthorne’s eyes twinkled as he looked at him.
‘I sure am,’ he replied. ‘Aren’t you?’
‘Not a bit.’
‘Well, I guess you oughter be.’ He crossed to the washstand, picked up the tooth glass, and examined it critically. Passing it as satisfactorily clean, he returned to Carter and poured himself out a liberal dose of whisky, splashing in a little soda. That done, he sat on the bed, indicating to Carter to take the armchair, an invitation promptly accepted by that young man. ‘Here’s how,’ remarked Hawthorne by way of a toast, and proceeded to reduce his drink to a negligible quantity. ‘Now,’ he observed, ‘I reckon it’s up to you to explain a few things, Mr Carter. It will kinder clear the air.’
‘Oh,’ returned the Secret Service man, ‘how about your commencing the explanations?’
‘Yes; I daresay you have as much right to ask me as I have to ask you. We’re both in a darn predicament, I guess, like a couple of guys trying to spar with our eyes blindfolded. Perhaps you’ll start by putting me wise about one thing. What’s the big idea of the Bolshie stunt? You sure took me in, and, to judge from what I’ve heard, you’ve taken in everyone else in this all-fired joint. But you’re no more a communist than I am.’
‘Are you sure of that?’
‘Of course I’m sure. There’s a subtle difference in you now, your face is different, though your clothes aren’t. But I reckon, looking at you now, that you’re not in the habit of being so slovenly, in your personal appearance. And, gee! That tie! Say, Mr Carter, it gives me a pain.’
‘I feel ill myself when I look at it,’ admitted Carter. ‘Luckily, once it’s on, I don’t have to look at it.’
‘Well, what’s the answer?’
‘I’m afraid there is none – at least, not until I know something more about you.’
‘And, as I can’t tell you anything about myself until I know you’re on the level, we sure are the world’s pet dumb oysters, aren’t we?’ He sat regarding Carter quizzically for a few moments. ‘Well, I guess there’s no more to be said. Yes, there is,’ he added quickly, ‘there’s one question you won’t mind answering, I think. Were you in Grote’s room for the purpose of lifting the dough in that bag?’
‘No; I didn’t know it was there until I saw it.’
‘When you saw it, was it your idea to lift it? I mean, would you have helped yourself to it, if I hadn’t happened along?’
‘Well, that’s good enough for me. You’re not a Bolshie and you’re not a crook. I didn’t think you were the second, anyway.’
‘I am going to ask you the same question. Not that asking a question of that sort is a great deal of good anyway. We may both be lying.’
‘But we’re not,’ observed Hawthorne.
Carter eyed him steadily.
‘No, we’re not,’ he decided after a slight pause. ‘Do you happen to be an American crook who, knowing that Grote was carrying all that money about with him, was waiting for an opportunity to rob him, and did you enter his room with that purpose?’
‘No to both questions,’ replied Hawthorne promptly. ‘I admit, though, that I knew he was packing a mighty large wad.’
‘It amounts to about three hundred thousand dollars.’
Hawthorne nodded his head.
‘I calculated it would be about that figure,’ he admitted. ‘I’ll tell you this much, Mr Carter – it’s not clean dough, not one darn plunk of it.’
‘Then I have guessed right. You are a member of the United States police force?’
Hawthorne had a most attractive smile. Carter thought so, as he observed it now.
‘I am and I’m not,’ was the American’s paradoxical reply.
‘That’s exactly what I expected you to say, somehow,’ commented Carter. ‘I don’t quite know why. Well, as neither of us can tell the other much, suppose we both agree not to give each other away? I remain a red-hot communist, you continue to be a businessman interested in steel cables.’
‘That goes with me,’ agreed Hawthorne; then added in regretful tones, ‘though I guess if we could get together we could help each other some. Have another drink?’
Carter accepted.
‘I believe,’ he remarked, ‘that I have the advantage of you to a certain extent. I know that you were watching Modjeska when he went to Shirland Road, Maida Vale, yesterday. I also know that you were at Waterloo last night and saw him meet Grote.’
Hawthorne paused in the act of pouring whisky into his companion’s glass. He frowned a little.
‘Say,’ he demanded, ‘have you been trailing me?’
‘No. As a matter of fact I thought you were trailing me. Didn’t you follow Modjeska and me to Maida Vale yesterday?’
‘I did not. Say when!’
Carter obliged, the American added a little soda to the whisky, and handed the glass back. He proceeded to replenish his own tumbler.
‘It was sheer coincidence then,’ pursued the Englishman, ‘that you happened to be on the spot yesterday afternoon?’
‘You’re asking questions again, but I don’t mind answering that one. It was not coincidence. I expected Modjeska to turn up in Shirland Road sooner or later. I was on the watch for him.’
‘I wonder why,’ murmured Carter.
‘Go on wondering,’ grinned Hawthorne. ‘It don’t cost anything. But say,’ he added, looking really perturbed this time, ‘I didn’t see you. Have you told Modjeska you saw me?’ Carter shook his head. ‘That’s a relief. You’d sure queer my pitch, if you did. Have you any objection to telling me why you went with him to Shirland Road, and why you were keeping watch?’
‘I wasn’t keeping watch. He had had some difficulty in finding the place, and asked me to help. I think he was rather shy of asking, and besides he pronounced the name wrongly. I left him there, and was about to return when I glanced round, and saw you.’
‘And you say you were not trailing me when I went to Waterloo last night? I guess you were trailing him then.’
‘No, I happened to be there, and saw you. Naturally I wondered what you were up to, and watched. In consequence I also witnessed the arrival of Grote and his meeting with Modjeska. I also discovered that, for some reason or other, you were greatly interested in their movements. Your obvious desire not to be seen convinced me that you were known to Grote and had no wish that he should meet you.’
Hawthorne groaned.
‘I guess I’ve been a darn fool,’ he declared. ‘There was I thinking I was so mighty slick, and all the time my movements were being observed by you. Gee! If you’d been in with them––’ The thought seemed to give him very great concern. His lips pursed together, and he lapsed into silence. Presently an expression of perplexity settled on his face. ‘I wish I knew where you and I stand in relation to each other in this business,’ he observed. ‘We both seem to be on the same lay, and it looks like we might be allies. Yet, on the other hand, it is possible our objects may be in opposition. We can’t find out, because neither you nor I are going to spill the beans about ourselves. You think I’m connected with the USA police – I’ve got a hunch now that you’re not unconnected with little old Scotland Yard.’
‘New Scotland Yard,’ corrected Carter with a smile.
‘Anyway, I guess you’re on the level, but I daren’t take a chance.’
‘Same here,’ nodded the Englishman. ‘But why worry? We have agreed not to give each other away. You can rely upon me, and I jolly well know I can rely on you.’
‘That’s so,’ he agreed, and held out his hand. ‘Shake!’
They solemnly and firmly clasped hands. Carter finished his drink and rose.
‘I’d better go before people commence to return for luncheon,’ he remarked. ‘It won’t do your character any good, if it becomes known that you are friendly with a fiery communist.’
‘I guess not,’ returned Hawthorne, his eyes twinkling humorously. ‘You won’t see me at lunch, tea, or dinner. It’s as much as I can stand to sleep in this darn joint, and have breakfast here.’
‘You weren’t at breakfast this morning.’
‘Nope. I had it up here. While Grote stays, Wilmer P. H. Hawthorne keeps coyly out of sight. I guess that guy would have a mighty bad fit if he knew I was here.’
‘He might see your name in the book, or Modjeska may mention it to him.’
‘That won’t cut any ice.’
‘You mean the name is false?’
‘Well, I reckon I should hate like hell to be attached to a name like that, if it was real.’
Carter laughed.
‘It certainly proves that you possess a fertile imagination.’
‘I chose it because, nobody would suspect it to be an alias. What guy, who was travelling under false colours, would choose Wilmer Peregrine Huckleberry Hawthorne? Anyone who heard it would reckon that such a name could only have been given by misguided parents. Now if I had called myself William Brown or John Smith or––’
‘Or Tommy Carter,’ interposed that young man, ‘you would expect people to think that your name was adopted.’
‘Is yours an alias?’ asked Hawthorne.
‘No; it’s my very own.’
‘I calculated it was. You don’t look as though you lack intelligence.’
At that Carter laughed outright.
‘You mean that it is too obvious sounding an alias to be an alias?’ he chuckled.
‘Sure. I guess you get me. Well, Tommy, I seem to have said a good deal more than I should, but I’m not worrying. You and I are far more likely to turn out to be allies than enemies. By the way, have you any objection to my calling you Tommy? It’s a habit of mine to use first names, when I know them. I reckon that’s what they’re for anyway.’
‘I don’t mind at all,’ Carter assured him. ‘Most of my friends call me Tommy, and I believe you and I are going to be friends.’
‘We sure are.’
‘May I know your real name?’
Hawthorne regarded him with a whimsical smile.
‘I guess not – not just yet. If you don’t mind, I’ll remain Wilmer Peregrine and the rest to you for the present.’
There came a knock on the door. The two men looked questioningly at each other. Carter quickly stepped out of sight, while the American opened it. Outside stood one of the chambermaids.
‘Cable for you, Mr Hawthorne,’ she announced.
‘Now isn’t that nice? You’re sure a kind-hearted girl to bring it right up. How did you know I was in?’
‘Your key wasn’t hanging with the others.’
‘But I might have taken it out with me. I often do. Anyhow it’s swell of you.’
He tipped her, and closed the door. Taking care that Carter was not near enough to be able to read the cable, he quickly tore open the envelope. At once an expression of beatific happiness spread over his face. Carter gathered that the message had nothing to do with his work.
‘Bless every hair of her lovely head,’ murmured the American, and his companion felt as though he were intruding. He walked towards the door, and was about to go out. ‘This is from my wife,’ announced Hawthorne, putting out a hand to stop him. ‘She’s a great girl, Tommy; you’d love her. Don’t go for a moment. It’s good to be able to talk to someone about Joan. It’s mighty lonesome without her. She and I have been married nearly four years, but I hate like hell being parted from her. Guess we’ll have another drink to toast her.’
Carter was not particularly anxious for any more, but he could not very well refuse with such a purpose in view. Their glasses replenished, they raised them with great solemnity.
‘Joan!’ murmured the American.
‘Mrs Hawthorne,’ said Carter.
The toast was drunk; then Hawthorne laughed.
‘You startled me with that name for a moment,’ he remarked. ‘Gee! I don’t like it attached to Joan somehow. It don’t fit. She’s a swell kid to send me a cable, don’t you agree, Tommy?’ Carter assured him that he certainly did. ‘She’s English,’ went on the American, ‘and every year spends a holiday over here. I have never been able to accompany her yet, but she’s going to join me when – when my job is finished, and by heck! We’re going to make little old England sit up and take notice. I have a picture of her with me. Like to see it?’
Carter nodded with an eagerness not altogether assumed. He felt he would be interested to see what kind of a wife Hawthorne possessed. The latter took a photograph – postcard size – from his pocket book; handed it almost reverently to the Englishman. Carter gave one glance at it; then sank weakly into a chair.
‘Good Lord!’ he exclaimed. ‘Shannon’s sister! Then you must be Oscar Miles, the Chief of the United States Secret Service!’