Chronicles of the Secret Service (16 page)

‘Lots,’ intimated the girl. ‘What was the plot Karen was engineering?’

Cousins’ face grew grim.

‘He had planned an assassination,’ he replied ‘an assassination that would have shaken the Empire to its foundations that might have caused chaos and disruption. I believe there was a certain country, antagonistic to England, behind it. But the proof of that – if proof existed – was destroyed with the house. Two men were selected to throw the bombs; others, Turgenev, Gortschakoff, Vogel, and Keremsky, were to be standing by to
see there was no failure. You had practical experience of the terrific power of those bombs. There is no need for me to say more, is there?’

His words were followed by a horrified silence, which lasted until the car was threading its way through the London traffic; then:

‘What a great debt the Empire owes to you, Mr Cousins,’ observed the girl softly.

The little Secret Service man adroitly changed the subject.

‘I owe you two a debt for the use of your car,’ he chuckled. ‘In a way, you were responsible for my finding Karen. All the same, you deserve a wigging for behaving like a couple of idiots. I know I looked a disreputable scarecrow but, thinking I was drunk, you should have had sense to realise there was something in the wind, when I spoke to you in a perfectly sober voice. I guessed Karen wasn’t taking you into that house through sheer good nature, and I took a risk in warning you. It might have spoilt my game completely. Why, in heaven’s name, didn’t you do what I advised, and get out while the going was good?’

They were very contrite. Tony explained their – particularly his – anxiety to find a thrill, to experience something out of the ordinary. He told how he had wandered round London, searching for the romance and adventure that never came.

‘Well, you got all the thrills you wanted last night, I should imagine,’ commented Cousins, ‘and a bit over.’

‘By Jove! You’re right, sir; we did.’ His eyes glistened. ‘I suppose there’s not a vacancy in the Secret Service for a fellow like me?’

Cousins laughed heartily.

‘There may be for a fellow like you,’ he replied, ‘but not for
you
. Your methods of going about things are not exactly calculated to be successful in intelligence work. For instance, rattling a pair of shoes on banisters in sheer exuberance of spirits, when the need is for dead silence, is not good pidgin, as my Chinese boy would say.’

Tony looked crestfallen.

‘I’m damn sorry about that, sir,’ he apologised. ‘I suppose I was really the cause of—’

‘We’ll think no more about it,’ interrupted Cousins in kindly tones. ‘Drop me at Lancaster Gate, will you, please? I’m looking forward to becoming a respectable human being once more. By the way, you two will have to do some explaining to Miss Hardinge’s relations, won’t you? Refer to me, if you need any help. Oh, that reminds me!’ he fished out a pound note from his rags, and handed it to Sonia. ‘I’m afraid all your valuables went to glory with Karen, but he took this pound from your purse, Miss Hardinge, when we were at Soho, and pushed it into one of my apologies for pockets. Queer fellow, Karen. Even he, I suppose, had some sort of good in him somewhere.’

Sonia took the note with a little word of thanks, but rather as though the sight of it was repugnant to her. Cousins was not surprised, when he saw her surreptitiously drop it over the side. He understood.

The car stopped, and the Secret Service man ascended to the pavement. A most elegant individual stepped away from him with a grimace of mingled surprise and disgust. The little man chuckled. He shook hands with Sonia and Tony.

‘Take my advice,’ he urged, ‘give up searching for thrills and
excitement. There’s a tremendous lot to be said for a humdrum, commonplace mode of existence, you know.’

‘We’ve found that out,’ admitted Tony ruefully. ‘No more aching for adventures for me. Sonia and I are to be married as soon as possible. That will be my biggest thrill.’

‘We are going to settle down like sensible people,’ added the girl, ‘and just be wonderfully content with life as we find it.’

‘Splendid,’ approved Cousins. ‘“Content is wealth, the riches of the mind; And happy he who can such riches find.” Goodbye!’

They drove away amidst a duet of gratitude. He stood watching the car until it had passed from sight. Then, with a little sigh, he set off for home.

Major-General Sir Leslie Hastings, General Officer Commanding Peshawar Command, entered his headquarters, and marched to his office, perfunctorily returning the salutes of the sentries. A young staff officer, catching sight of him, beat a hasty retreat into the room of Captain Charteris, the general’s secretary.

‘Look out for squalls, Topknot,’ he warned the latter, ‘Jumbo’s got ’em badly this morning. His breakfast curry’s disagreed with him, or Mrs Jumbo’s sent him a cholera belt or something. His face is like a beetroot fresh from the boil.’

‘It always is,’ commented Charteris who, due to a tuft of hair that would stick up, was affectionately known as Topknot. ‘What can you expect when he weighs twenty stone if an ounce and has a tummy like Rashid’s bullock?’

‘Oh, it’s worse than usual. It’s not only beetroot red, it’s vermilion, magenta, cerise, purple and crimson by turns. The old boy has definitely got the needle.’

Charteris looked concerned.

‘Oh, damn!’ he exclaimed. ‘He’ll keep me fussing about all the morning with his blasted orders and counter-orders. I have a date to go riding with Phyllis Goddard, too. It’s infernal heat, I expect, that’s got him. Why the devil he can’t run the show from Murree or somewhere less like Hades, I can’t fathom.’

‘What’s Phyllis doing down here? When did she come from the Hills?’

Charteris was about to reply, when an orderly entered the room; came smartly to attention.

‘General’s compliments, sir,’ he snapped like an automaton. ‘Will you step along to his room?’

‘Very well, Barley.’ The orderly departed as smartly as he had arrived. ‘He hasn’t wasted much time,’ grunted Topknot. He rose from his desk. ‘I’m damned if I don’t think I’ll ask for leave.’

‘Don’t ask him this morning, old son,’ grinned the other. ‘Shall I go a-riding with little Phyllis in your place?’

‘Go to the devil!’ grunted Charteris.

General Hastings hardly merited his secretary’s uncomplimentary description. He was certainly stoutish, but not unpleasantly so, and his weight was probably not more than thirteen stone, if that. Perhaps the fact that he was rather short caused him to appear more rotund than he actually was. Despite these physical drawbacks, he contrived to look thoroughly military. His closely cut, crisp grey hair and small moustache
aided in producing this – Charteris called it ‘delusional’ – effect. Somebody had, back in the distant past, labelled him ‘Jumbo’. The nickname had stuck, and was so well known throughout the army that wonder had been expressed on occasions, by disrespectful brother officers, at his name not appearing in the army list as Major-General Sir Leslie (Jumbo) Hastings. He possessed a face that was invariably a deep red. It was almost round and, from it, glared a fierce pair of blue eyes under bushy eyebrows that, like his hair and moustache, were grey.

Charteris found him running a large handkerchief round between his collar and bull-like neck, and muttering to himself. The young officer saluted, stood respectfully watching the operation from the other side of the huge desk.

‘Morning, Charteris,’ grunted the general. ‘Why the devil can’t those idiots at the War Office, who are always messing about with uniforms, devise something for the tropics without a collar. This heat’s damnable. Twenty past ten only, and it’s a hundred and seventeen in the shade already.’

Charteris felt inclined to remind him that, although it might be, and probably was, that temperature elsewhere, it certainly was not as high in that large, airy office, with the windows shuttered and the two large, electric fans spinning rapidly above. In fact, the secretary thought it delightfully cool. His room was a good deal warmer. However, Sir Leslie was obviously not in a mood to be corrected on any point, no matter how trivial it might be. As it was, Charteris blundered by making a suggestion.

‘Why not go to the Hills, sir?’ he remarked. ‘You could keep in hourly touch, if necessary, with the situation on the
Frontier, and could return at a moment’s notice if—’

‘Talk sense, man,’ barked the general, suspending the mopping process to glare balefully at his subordinate. ‘You know as well as I that the Afridis might swoop at any moment. I’d cut a damn fine figure were I capering round hills when those devils took into their heads to play merry hell down here. I suppose you’re thinking of girls, and dances, and all the rest of that damned nonsense. All you young fellows are good for these days is poodle-faking. Can’t think what the army’s coming to – I’m hanged if I can.’

Charteris reddened a little, but was not greatly concerned. He had heard all that before – not once, but many times. Sir Leslie stuffed the voluminous handkerchief up his sleeve.

‘Why the devil did I send for you?’ he growled. ‘Oh, I know, ring up that Intelligence fellow, and tell him I want him here at once. He’s at Dean’s, isn’t he?’

‘He’s here, sir,’ replied the secretary with a tinge of malice in his tone. ‘He’s been kicking his heels waiting to see you since half past nine.’

‘Why the hell didn’t you say so before? Send him in. And see that I’m not disturbed until he’s gone.’

Captain Charteris departed with relief. He found the ‘Intelligence fellow’ hobnobbing with a staff major with whom he had been at Sandhurst.

‘So Jumbo’s on the warpath, is he?’ he commented in reply to the secretary’s message, given with the warning that Sir Leslie was extra lavish that morning. ‘That don’t worry me. I knew him well in Mespot – we had lots of fun and games together. I rather like the old boy.’

‘Do you? We don’t,’ was the emphatic rejoinder of the staff officer. ‘Life was apt to move on well-ordered lines before Jumbo took over. He’s only been here three months, but – oh, Lord!’ Words failed him.

Major Kershaw grinned. He was a spare man of medium height, whose hair, moustache, and eyebrows were of that colour generally described by females as auburn, but which most males are content to call ginger. He was exceedingly freckled, possessed a snub nose, square jaw, and a pair of twinkling blue eyes. From this description, it will be gathered he was not exactly, in the words of the song, lovely to look at, but he was a great favourite, wherever he went, equally at home in male or female society, nursing the baby of a sergeant’s wife or hobnobbing with a governor of a province. His whole military career had been spent in India, except for his service in Palestine, Egypt, and Mesopotamia during the Great War. For some time now, designated with the mystic military abbreviation, GSO3, he himself, as was to be expected of an important Intelligence officer, had been somewhat of a mystery man. He rarely wore uniform, disappeared entirely for long periods, and lived in hotels where it was his custom sometimes, to the scandal of the management, to interview, behind closed doors, a weird assortment of individuals of diverse races, creeds and colours.

He sauntered into General Hastings’ office as though he was part owner; grinned cheerfully at the choleric man sitting behind the huge desk glaring at him.

‘How d’you do, sir?’ was his salutation. ‘By Jove! You’re looking well. It’s a long time since we met – fifteen years, isn’t it?’

‘Eh? What’s that? Met?’ The general stared at him as though an outburst of fury was imminent then, wonder of wonders! The viate expression faded from his face, to be replaced actually by a smile. ‘Good God! Why, Ginger Kershaw!’ He rose, and the two shook hands heartily. ‘So Major Kershaw, GSO3, and that damned precocious cub, Lieutenant Kershaw, are one and the same.’ He resumed his seat, waved his visitor to another. ‘I never connected you, but I might have known. Those were grand days, Kershaw, and I’ve never forgotten what I owed to that impudence of yours. I wonder if I’d have taken the same risks then, if I’d held my present rank. One can do things as a major or lieutenant-colonel that one daren’t countenance as a general.’ He sounded regretful.

Kershaw’s eyes twinkled. He flung his topee across the room where it landed unerringly on a rattan chair similar to the one in which he was sitting.

‘Nonsense, sir,’ he objected. ‘You’re not going to persuade me that the spirit has altered. Why, I can see it in your face. Still the same old Jumbo inside – though perhaps not out,’ he added, eyeing Hastings’ corpulent figure with a grin.

Nobody but he would have dared refer to the general to his face as Jumbo. It was typical of the man. He was no respecter of persons or personalities. He was as liable to speak his mind to the viceroy as to his own servant. Probably that was one of the reasons why he was held in such high regard by all. The general showed no resentment at his remark; on the contrary, he laughed heartily. The sentry on the veranda outside heard it; was so unnerved by the unusual sound that he almost dropped his rifle. Sir Leslie patted his middle.

‘I’ve certainly put on flesh,’ he admitted. ‘But seriously, Kershaw, this job has got me down. It’s not in my line. Why the devil they wanted to send me up here, when little of my service has been in India, and none on the frontier, is beyond me.’

‘Because you’re a damn fine soldier, sir,’ returned Kershaw, and he meant it.

The general grunted. There was no suspicion in his mind that the other was flattering him. He had learnt to understand the ginger-haired man thoroughly in Mesopotamia, where the latter had acted as his adjutant for many months. He knew quite well that it was his habit to speak bluntly. Had Kershaw thought he was ‘a damn bad soldier’, he would have said so probably in exactly the same tone as he had uttered the reverse.

‘That’s all very well, but these rumours and counter rumours have got me jumpy. If I could march right in and tackle the blighters, I’d be as happy as a king’s cadet. But I’ve got to wait and watch, wondering all the time what they’re going to do next. I know damn well everyone here thinks I ought to migrate to the Hills, and the staff is thoroughly disgruntled. They regard me as a plague spot – and dash it all! I don’t blame them.’

Kershaw laughed.

‘Take my tip, General,’ he advised, ‘go to the Hills. You’ll be out of this sweltering heat, everybody’ll be pleased, and you’ll be better tempered. You can take my word for it, you can go quite safely. Nothing’s likely to happen – at least not yet anyway.’

Sir Leslie eyed him hopefully, but still doubtfully. He leant across the desk, and some of his old fire returned.

‘Look here,’ he growled, ‘one of my greatest grouses has been lack of adequate intelligence. I was kept informed of a lot of stuff
that meant nothing. You had disappeared into the blue shortly before I took command. Since then, we’ve only had reports from you at rare intervals, most of them as barren as Baluchistan. Yesterday you returned and, by Gad! It was my intention to pulverise you. I came here this morning prepared to work the third degree on you, until I obtained some information from you that I could get my teeth into. What’s Intelligence up to, Kershaw? Tell me something I want to know.’

‘That’s why I’m here, sir,’ came from the other. ‘I’ll tell you enough to make you skip off happily to Lady Hastings at Murree, and forget there are such places as Peshawar or disturbers of the peace like Afridis.’

‘Well, get on with it, man, but, for God’s sake don’t feed me with stories about the Haji of Turangzai. I’m sick to death of him. Hotheaded fanatics, always ready to preach a holy war against Britain, don’t matter a hoot. One always knows what they’re up to. They broadcast their intentions by their very blatancy, and end by proving their own worst enemies by acting as publicity agents against themselves. I want to know something definite of this Abdul Qadir Khan and what he actually is plotting. The mass of rumours, your own noncommittal reports, and the obviously suppressed excitement of the tribes round about are what have been worrying me. Also, I’m anxious to find out where Afghanistan comes into the affair.’ He pushed a box of cigarettes across the table. ‘Help yourself, and tell me all you know.’

Major Kershaw accepted the invitation, leant back in his chair, and lazily watched a spiral of smoke being ruthlessly disintegrated by the wind from the fan above.

‘For a newcomer to the frontier, General,’ he observed, ‘you are a boon and a blessing to a poor Intelligence man like me. Ordinarily, I should have had to start my discourse with something like, “This continually seething, rebellious spot within the Empire, the North West Frontier of India, was never more troublesome or ready to revolt than it is today.” Thank the Lord, you’ve saved me all that by wanting to get at the core of the situation. You’re quite right about Turangzai and his like, who make a big song and dance about their show. They’ll give us heaps of trouble yet, but we’ll keep on subduing them, so long as Abdul Qadir’s ideas don’t bear fruit. He is the most dangerous man who has ever plotted against us and, if he, by any chance, succeeds in the cunning scheme he is weaving, we shall find ourselves plunged into the worst war we’ve ever had to face up here.

‘Abdul Qadir Khan is a Mahsud by birth. He was educated at Islamia College here, where he obtained a Punjab University degree. His family had plenty of money, and they were so tickled at his success, as a scholar, that he was sent to Europe to continue his studies. Thus was added to the stock-in-trade of a naturally subtle rogue with the utmost resource all that Europe could teach him of Western culture, habits, weaknesses, and strength. In addition, he made an investigation of methods of warfare, of offence and defence. In fact, to use an Americanism, he got acquainted with the whole works. On his return to the North West Frontier he commenced to apply his researches to his own schemes. It is his idea to unite the Afridis into one powerful force. While not interfering with their natural methods of warfare, he yet intends imbuing them with a real military sense.
One by one, the tribes are falling into step, and are allowing themselves to be trained as real well-disciplined soldiers by men whom he has personally selected. What is more, they are taking their training very seriously and with great earnestness. You don’t need to be told what the finished article is likely to turn out. A natural born fighter, trained in modern military methods, is going to prove a formidable enemy – far more formidable than the Afridi we have been in the habit of facing.