Carter placed some distance between himself and the Canute Hotel before entering a telephone booth. He was quickly put through to Sir Leonard’s office when the clerk in charge of the telephone switchboard at Secret Service headquarters knew who was speaking. The chief listened to all he had to say, asking a question now and again, but not otherwise interrupting. At the conclusion of the recital he uttered a few words of approval which caused the young Secret Service man to feel a sense of deep pleasure. As Carter had anticipated, he was directed to continue living the character he had assumed, and to depart for Vienna without appearing at his home or headquarters or holding any communication whatever with friends or colleagues. Sir Leonard assured him that, unless something unforeseen happened, he would keep in constant touch with him from the moment he left London throughout his stay in Austria.
‘You may not recognise me or those with me,’ he concluded, ‘but if accosted make certain that the man speaking to you has an artificial left arm. If, by some chance, I lose touch with you, call in the shop of Lalére and Company, in Vienna, and buy a bottle of scent. It might be as well to supply yourself with a woman friend in case that becomes necessary, Carter.’
The young man smiled to himself.
‘I understand, sir,’ he returned.
‘You’d better use some of that money Modjeska gave you to buy an outfit. It would be the natural thing to do. Good luck!’
Carter went to a cheap shop in the Strand, and bought a ready-made suit, a few shirts and collars, and a somewhat striking felt hat of a dark shade of green. Loaded with his parcels he returned to the Canute Hotel. An Italian selling baked potatoes not far from the door showed a gleam of white teeth in a smile as he offered to sell him some. The Englishman declined. Grote was emerging as he entered, and favoured him with a nod which was obviously intended to be friendly.
‘In Vienna,’ he muttered, ‘you will begin to live,’ and passed on.
Taking his purchases up to his room, the Secret Service man packed them, with the exception of the hat, into his battered suitcase. That done he went down to see the proprietor. He found the latter sitting moodily in his office.
‘I am leaving here early in the morning,’ he announced. ‘Can I have breakfast and the bill about eight?’
‘What you, too!’ quoth the landlord. ‘I shouldn’t have thought a death in the hotel would have bothered you.’
‘It doesn’t. I am leaving because I’ve a chance to get a job in the country.’
‘Sez you!’ sneered Mr Fellowes. He and his wife were inveterate film-goers. ‘Mr Modjeska and Mr Grote go this evening, Mr and Mrs Curzon have already gone, and Mr Hawthorne goes this afternoon. I suppose they’ve all got a chance of jobs in the country. It’s too bad a poor, hard-working hotel proprietor has to suffer, because a fellow who ought to have known better goes and kills himself.’
‘You’ll get others,’ Carter consoled him, though his sullen countenance showed no sympathy. ‘Anyhow, you can believe it or not, I’m going because I’ve got to get a job. What do you think I am – a bloodsucking capitalist?’
‘Now then, none of that Bolshie talk, please. If you are after a job, take my advice, young man, and cut all that sort of talk right out. It won’t ever do you any good.’
‘Can I have breakfast at eight?’ snapped Carter.
‘Yes, you can.’
‘Right – don’t forget it.’
The pseudo-communist turned away, and came face-to-face with Miss Veronica Simpson. She wrinkled her nose as though a bad smell had suddenly troubled it; stepped as far from him as she could.
‘Mr Fellowes,’ he heard her say as he walked along the passage, ‘has the body been removed? I feel nervous at going upstairs while—’
‘Do you expect it to dance about rattling chains or something?’ interrupted the irritable landlord. ‘Well, it has been removed, so you can rest easy.’
‘It’s a pity that young man Carter wasn’t taken instead of––’
The Secret Service agent heard no more as he turned into the lounge, but he smiled grimly to himself. Modjeska was the only other occupant, and was spread inelegantly in an armchair, sleeping gently, his hands clasped across his middle. How a man could be so utterly devoid of or deaf to conscience as to be able to slumber placidly when he had recently committed a diabolical crime was more than Carter could fathom. Suddenly he conceived a great distaste of remaining anywhere near the fellow. He left the hotel, and walked to the Strand, where he lunched in one of Slater’s establishments. Afterwards he gave himself a half holiday; went to a football match. On returning, he arrived at the door of the Canute at the identical moment that Modjeska and Grote emerged carrying their bags. They nodded to him somewhat curtly as they passed by; he returned the salute as brusquely. He watched them walk towards Waterloo, and wondered why they chose to travel to the continent by way of Southampton and Havre instead of by one of the shorter and more obvious routes. What business could they have in Havre? However, there was no need for him to worry about that, Cousins would be travelling with them.
He lounged about the hotel for the rest of the evening, had dinner, then went out for his usual circuitous stroll. He did not consider such precautions necessary now, but his training had taught him never to take anything for granted. The incident of Julius Carberry was an example, in itself, of the manner in which unforeseen circumstances arise. It was possible, though not probable, that his movements were being watched by some other individual. Accordingly he never allowed himself to be off his guard for a moment as he sauntered along, giving the impression to anybody who might have taken the trouble to observe him that he was a young man simply killing time.
He entered Waterloo Station a few minutes before nine o’clock. On this occasion he had no report to send to Sir Leonard Wallace, but there might be a message for him. There was no sign of Hill or any other of his colleagues in the buffet, but he would wait. He ordered his usual whisky and soda from the girl who had served him the two previous occasions. She recognised him, and showed an inclination to enter into conversation, but he gave her no encouragement. Presently she retired to the background, stood talking with one of the other assistants. From the frequent unfriendly glances the two of them cast in his direction, Carter gathered that she was making disparaging remarks concerning him. Suddenly her face lit up; she hurried to the counter.
‘Hullo, sweetheart,’ came in Hill’s cheery accents. ‘How’s business tonight?’
‘Dull at present,’ she returned. ‘We’ve been very busy, but it’s eased off. The usual?’
‘Please.’
He put his hand in his pocket, drew out a paper and flicked it open. Part of it fell in front of Carter, who immediately glanced down at it. Pencilled in the margin was quite a long message. While pretending to sip his drink, he read it, and gradually surprise, not unmixed with dismay, took possession of him. It ran:
M. and G. did not travel by Havre boat train. C. saw no signs of men answering their descriptions, but travelled Southampton. Enquiries proved no one of their names crossing Havre tonight. Cousins returning London. Chief suspects misled you with object of keeping you under observation to make sure of you. Be on your guard. One of them will probably be watching when you read this. Chief wants you to write out a statement regarding death at hotel for Scotland Yard.
Carter turned away, his back to Hill, thus indicating that he had read the message. The latter twisted the paper over in order that the pencilled words could not be seen by any other person, but pretended to continue to read until the barmaid rallied him about preferring the paper to entering into conversation with her. Then he folded it up, putting it carefully away in an inside pocket of his coat. Shortly afterwards Carter left the buffet. Although not appearing to be taking any particular notice of anything or anybody, he was, nevertheless, very much on the alert. He resolved to satisfy himself that he actually was being watched. Striding along now as though he had some purpose in view, he went down the slope from the station, and made his way to Hungerford Bridge. Halfway across he stopped and, leaning over, stood as though studying the river, but he was searching the darkness for evidence that Modjeska or Grote or both were on his trail. Sure enough a few yards away, seen dimly between two lamps, was the form of a man also engaged apparently in contemplation of the Thames. As the night was bitterly cold, and it was very exposed at that point, it seemed unlikely, thought Carter, that any other man would be standing there leaning over the parapet, unless he were interested in him. The figure suggested Modjeska; it certainly was not that of Grote. Carter decided that he would cause the man to regret deeply, before he went to bed that night, that he had ever undertaken to trail the new recruit to the anarchist society.
Tommy Carter was an extremely hardy young man, and in perfect physical condition. He could bear the biting cold of that March night on the bleak and unsheltered bridge without a good deal of discomfort, but he did not imagine Modjeska could. The Pole was obviously unused to hardship, loved comfort, in fact took remarkably good care of himself. By the time Carter felt that even he had had enough Modjeska must have been in a woeful state. The Secret Service man then proceeded to take him for a fast and lengthy walk. He led the way across Trafalgar Square, up the Haymarket, along Regent Street; then Oxford Street to Selfridge’s, where he turned up Orchard Street, continued along Baker Street and made a complete circuit of Regent’s Park. Not satisfied with that, he went on through Camden Town until he reached Finsbury Park, stopping when he came to Holloway as though to inspect the grim prison for females, but in reality to give Modjeska time to catch up with him. He had long since ascertained that the man was, in fact, the Pole. He had turned round suddenly at Oxford Circus when waiting for the traffic to pass in order to cross the road. Modjeska had been only a few yards behind him then, and had immediately slunk back, but Carter had seen him, though naturally he gave no sign that he had done so. Going along Park Street towards Camden Town, the Secret Service agent had stolen another glance, to find that Modjeska was lagging badly.
Carter decided that Finsbury Park should be the furthermost point of his little stroll as he gleefully called it to himself. He retraced his steps, therefore, turning so abruptly that the Pole had barely time to slink into the shadows. The Englishman grinned as he noticed him crouching down in a gateway, not more than three yards from him, pretending to do up a bootlace. He walked back at a reduced speed, fearful that his shadower would be unable to keep in touch with him if he continued to hurry. It was his object to walk the Pole to the point when he could walk no longer. He returned to Camden Town; then turned down the Hampstead Road. By Carreras’ striking factory he stood as though vastly interested in the black cats. A glance from the corner of his eye showed him Modjeska coming along, reeling from side to side like a drunken man. He was very near breaking point, but Carter felt no pity for him. A little suffering might act as some slight punishment for the fiendish crime the man had committed on the previous night. At the same time he felt a certain measure of respect for him. Scoundrel though he was, he had shown a good deal of grit. Carter led him along Tottenham Court Road, but lost him completely at Cambridge Circus. He waited some minutes in expectation of seeing him appear; then cautiously went back. He found him sitting on the edge of the pavement, surrounded by a crowd. A sympathetic policeman was bending over him. Carter stood on the verge of the gathering, highly amused at some of the remarks he heard.
‘’E do look ill, pore gentleman, an’ ’e didn’t want no ’elp neither. Seemed fair upset when the copper come up to ’im after ’e’d fallen over.’
‘A furriner by the looks and sound of ’im. Says ’e lost his blinking way and come over queer like.’
‘The bobby’s gettin’ ’im a taxi. They’re good sorts on the whole, Chawley. Nasty blokes to run up agin when you’ve got summat on yer mind like wot is private, but puffect gentlemen when you’re took ill.’
A hand plucked Carter’s sleeve. He turned hastily and a trifle anxiously. The next moment he was smiling, broadly. Cartright, looking even more lugubrious than usual, was standing by his side.
‘What the devil have you been playing at, Tommy?’ groaned his colleague. ‘I’m aching all over – I’ll be stiff for weeks.’
‘Do you mean to say—?’ commenced Carter, but was unable to proceed further. A great outburst of laughter threatened to break from him, and he felt that, if he tried to say more, he would be unable to control it.
‘I mean to say,’ grumbled Cartright, ‘that I was told by the chief to pick up that ugly bloke if I could. I got on to him at Waterloo, and have been following him ever since. As he has been following you, you know the answer. You’ve practically killed him, and I’m more shop-soiled than I’ve ever been in my life before. What was the game, anyway?’
‘I’ve been punishing him for his sins,’ spluttered Carter. ‘I didn’t know I was punishing you also. But, hang it all! You don’t mind a little stroll, do you?’
‘Stroll! Stroll!’ Cartright’s feelings were, for a moment, too deep for words. ‘Lord! How I cursed you,’ he muttered presently. ‘I shall always loathe you for this, Tommy, you irresponsible idiot. You’d better hop it. Here’s the taxi; I’m going to follow him in another – he’s bound to give the constable a wrong address. Cheer ho, you darned torturer! I hope you lie awake all night with excruciating pain.’
‘I shouldn’t be surprised if Modjeska does,’ returned Carter cheerfully. ‘So long, James! Mind you tuck him in snug, and kiss him goodnight.’
Standing by the Dominion Theatre, he watched the policeman and another obliging citizen helping Modjeska into the cab. He seemed in a bad way. Carter walked on happily, every few minutes chuckling to himself at the thought that Cartright had, willy-nilly, been compelled to follow whither he had led Modjeska.
‘Lord!’ he remarked aloud, when nearing the Canute, ‘It’s the fruitiest joke of the year.’
At the hotel the young man wrote the necessary statement for Scotland Yard regarding his conviction that Julius Carberry had met his death by foul play, giving his reasons for that assumption, and laying particular stress on Ivan Modjeska’s previous attempt to hypnotise the man. He also emphasised the fact that less than ten minutes had passed from the time Carberry had left his room until Modjeska had gone to him, and that the Pole was in the blackmailer’s apartment for over two hours after that. The declaration finished, he signed it, placed it in an envelope, which he sealed and addressed to Major Brien. The latter would despatch it, with a confidential covering note, to the Commissioner of Police. The latter would take no criminal action until the Secret Service notified him that such would no longer interfere with the investigations of Sir Leonard Wallace and his agents. Carter undressed, put the document away in the pocket of his pyjama jacket, assured himself that the door of the room was locked and bolted, and went to bed. His long walk had not greatly fatigued him; he felt pleasantly tired, as well as delighted at having had the opportunity of scoring off Modjeska, and quickly fell into a dreamless sleep, which lasted until he was called in the morning.
He was in ample time for the boat train at Victoria. As he walked along the platform, clad in his new though somewhat ill-fitting suit, aggressive green felt hat, carrying his overcoat on one arm and battered suitcase in the other hand, he was keenly on the watch for Modjeska and Grote. He saw no signs of them, however, though he expected them to be on the train. Modjeska would be unable to meet him in Vienna otherwise, unless he went by air. On reflection Carter thought that that was probably what the Pole and Grote would do. There was a possibility, of course, and the idea caused the Englishman a good deal of quiet amusement, that Modjeska would not be in a fit condition to travel. In that case, he presumed, Grote would doubtless meet him on his arrival.
He selected a compartment in the first coach and, having deposited his bag in the rack and overcoat on a seat, descended to the platform. Presently a small man with a boyish figure came wandering along selling Sunday papers. He went from compartment to compartment, and appeared to be doing a great trade, for the train was packed. Something about him struck Carter as familiar; then, as he drew nearer, the former knew. It was his colleague, Cousins, one of the most brilliant of Sir Leonard’s senior assistants. He played the part of news vendor as though born to it, as in fact, he enacted all the numerous roles he was from time to time called upon to assume. Cousins was an extraordinary fellow in more ways than one. A perfect mine of reliable information, some of it concerning the most abstruse subjects, he rarely found it necessary to consult a book of reference. He was a linguist par excellence. No one knew exactly how many languages he could speak, though Hugh Shannon had computed the number at fifteen. Major Brien on one occasion asked him. Cousins had scratched his head and looked puzzled. ‘I can’t speak Japanese or Chinese,’ had been his reply. In addition he possessed a fluent knowledge of innumerable dialects. He was almost as good a shot with a revolver as Sir Leonard Wallace, could lasso like a cowboy, throw a knife better than most experts, and swim like a fish. There was hardly a spot on the globe with which he was not familiar, and his understanding of the mentality of people of foreign races, even that very intricate organism, the oriental mind, was something to wonder at. He had been a member of the Secret Service as long as Sir Leonard Wallace, graduating from Military Intelligence at about the same time. Cousins’ passion was literature – both poetry and prose. He was always ready with a quotation on every conceivable occasion; never seemed at a loss. His age was difficult to calculate. He might have been thirty-five or he might have been sixty. His amazingly wrinkled face gave him the appearance of age, but he possessed the figure of a boy of fourteen and was no taller. His height, as a matter of fact, was exactly five feet. His eyes were a deep brown and exceedingly bright; his mouth seemed to have been fashioned for laughter, it was all humorous curves. When he smiled, which was frequently, his face became a mass of extraordinary little creases, each of which appeared to possess its own private little grin.
Gradually he drew nearer to Carter, and the latter studied him with admiration as well as amusement. The manner in which he expertly produced a newspaper called for, and counted out change; his voice, as he invoked custom, suggested that he had been employed in that manner for years. But in some subtle way he had become a different Cousins. His wrinkles had, by clever make-up, been almost eliminated. His mouth drooped; looked anything but humorous. It is certain that only those who knew him well would recognise him. Carter was assured that people on the train who might see him as himself afterwards would never know him for the same person as the small, youngish-looking man from whom they had bought papers. At last he was abreast of Carter.
‘Paper, sir?’ he called. ‘Observer, Times, Chronicle, Dispatch, News of the World, People.’
‘News of the World, please,’ decided the other.
Cousins slipped it from his bag with celerity.
‘Here you are, sir.’ He accepted a shilling and, as he counted out the change, added rapidly in a low voice. ‘G and M are on the train in compartment at the rear with blinds down. Sir Leonard and Miles are close to them. I’m flying to Vienna – shall be somewhere about when you arrive. Have you the statement for Scotland Yard?’
‘Posted it to Major Brien on my way here. How’s Modjeska?’
‘Looks a wreck. You put it across him all right. Sir L not too delighted – thinks you may have incurred M’s enmity and thereby lose his support. Unreasonable of him, of course, but a man who has been walked almost to death is hardly likely to be reasonable. There you are, sir.’
Cousins passed on. Carter entered his compartment, threw his overcoat on to the rack, and sat down. He felt a trifle perturbed. It had not occurred to him that by making Modjeska follow him over half of London, he may have undone some of the good work he had accomplished. He realised it now, however. Although the Pole would think that Carter had not known he was being followed, his ire would undoubtedly be roused against a man who had caused him so much suffering. When he was fully recovered, he might no longer feel any resentment, but, on the other hand, it was possible he would allow it to linger and turn him against Carter. The latter began to regret his jest – it did not appear in such a humorous light now. Above all, he was chagrined at the fact that, having won the approbation of Sir Leonard Wallace, he had spoilt it by meriting his displeasure.
‘Hang you for a fool, Tommy,’ he muttered to himself. ‘When are you going to learn to be a little less impetuous?’
The train started; was presently tearing on its way through the countryside of Kent – beautiful even at that time of the year – on its non-stop run to Dover. Carter attempted to read his paper, but reflection of the harm his thoughtless desire to score off Modjeska might have done continually obtruded. Before long he gave up attempting to peruse the news; concentrated on finding a way back to Modjeska’s esteem, if indeed he had lost it. The laughter and chatter of the other people in the compartment – obviously a family party – were too distracting for deep thought, however, and he was unable to evolve any scheme of promise. His mind, by a natural process of thought, turned to wondering that Grote and Modjeska should have elected to travel by the same train as he. Having informed him that they were crossing to the continent on the previous day, what explanation would they make of their apparent change of plan, for they could hardly expect to escape his observation? Embarking on the boat at Dover, for instance, it would be well nigh impossible. He received his answer shortly after the train had thundered through Maidstone. The door communicating with the corridor was drawn back. Carter looked up, immediately experiencing a thrill of astonishment, which he made no attempt to hide. Standing there, looking down at him with a smile on his coarse features, was Hermann Grote.
‘How do you do?’ he greeted the Englishman. ‘My friend and I are on the train. We shall be glad if you will join us.’
Without a word, Carter rose and followed him.