The Secret War (10 page)

He visited a wireless store and then an oilshop, at both of which he made certain purchases, and packing most of these into a kitbag he had bought for the purpose, he took it to a garage near his hotel, where he arranged with the proprietor for the hire of a car. By six o'clock his preparations were completed and he rejoined his friends.

“I saw the old boy and I'm going out there again to-night,” he told them. “D'you really mean to go through with this, Christopher?”

“I do.” The young American's dark eyes lit up with almost savage determination.

“All right. I think I can give you your chance. How does that ether pistol of yours work?”

“It contains little cylinders of highly poisonous gas. They are smashed and the puff of gas ejected with tremendous force by compressed air. One breath of it is enough to kill almost instantly.”

“Good. I'm glad it's to be a painless business. It must be done silently too, if you're to stand any chance at all of getting out alive yourself, because the whole place is lousy with gunmen.”

“There's no chance of getting him away from the house, then?”

“Not an earthly. I had the devil of a job even to get in. You'll have to do it in the house, or not at all—that's certain.” Both of them listened intently as Lovelace told of his experiences that afternoon.

“It seems almost impossible for me to get at him at all then,” Christopher said gloomily. “How d'you propose that I should set about it?”

“Let's leave that till after dinner—shall we?”

They dined early, and Lovelace thought he had never sat through a more trying meal. Christopher displayed alternate moods of pessimism and gaiety. Although almost a teetotaller, he ordered a magnum of champagne and began to talk of his last wishes in the event of his being caught and killed by Zarrif's men. Valerie grew paler and paler as the meal dragged on until Lovelace feared that she would faint at the table; but with almost superhuman pluck she managed to keep her end up and laugh with Christopher during his outbursts of forced hilarity.

When at last coffee was served, Lovelace produced a small map of Athens and its environs. Passing it to Christopher, he explained to him the route he must take to reach Zarrif's house. It was not difficult, being a straight main road except for the last quarter-mile, and, as the house stood alone on the slope of the hill, Christopher agreed that he would have no trouble in finding it.

“Right, then,” Lovelace went on. “I shall have to leave you in a few minutes now, to keep my appointment, but I want you to follow me in a private car which I've hired for you from the Delphic garage. It'll be handed over to you here by their man at a quarter to nine. In it there's a pair of folding steps and a kit bag containing various other things we'll need. You will drive yourself out, but you're not to stop at the house; go straight on round the bend at the back and up the hill for about two hundred yards. Stop then, and wait until I join you there. I've ordered your car a bit early to make certain of it arriving up to time; but don't start before nine, because I don't want you hanging about there longer than necessary. I hope to be out of the house by half-past, but in any case I'll manage to be with you, somehow, before a quarter to ten. He turned to Valerie: “Could you fly the Adriatic by night if need be?”

“Oh, yes,” she nodded; “I've done far more difficult trips than that.”

“Then I want you to return to the airport when Christopher sets off. See that your plane's in readiness, then wait at the hotel. If you don't hear from us by eleven o'clock you're to leave at once for Brindisi. Is that all clear?”

As the others nodded he lifted his glass of champagne. “Well, here's lots of luck to all of us,” he said briefly. Finishing his wine, he stood up and left them.

On his second visit to Zarrif's house he paid off his taxi. The guards made no difficulty about letting him through, and the secretary, who was still at work, led him at once into the inner room.

Zarrif inquired courteously if he was better, and on learning that although still shaky he was fairly fit, settled down to bombard him with a fresh series of questions. Lovelace dealt with them to the best of his ability, but one almost took him off his guard. It was a sudden inquiry. “Do you know anything about the
Millers of God?
”

For a moment he feared that his imposture had been discovered, and that Zarrif had only been playing with him; but his one hope lay in keeping up his part.

“Yes,” he said slowly. “It's a sort of society, isn't it, which threatens people who speculate in currencies to such an extent that nations are forced into a corner and driven off gold.”

“It threatens those and others. What more do you know of it?” Zarrif's piercing eyes seemed to probe the deepest corners of his visitor's mind.

“Nothing—only rumours picked up in travelling here and there.”

“I see. You have nothing definite you can give me. Well …” The wizened old man's questions switched to another subject, and Lovelace breathed again.

A few moments later he pretended to be seized with
another attack. Zarrif showed no surprise, but treated him with the same consideration as before.

When Lovelace returned to the big, gloomy room he apologised and said: “If there's any more information you want I'll come out to-morrow morning. I'll be all right again by then.”

Zarrif nodded. “There is still much that I wish to hear. If you are free to return to Abyssinia I should like to have you with me. It is always of great value to be able to consult a man who has been so recently at the scene of action.”

Lovelace hesitated a moment.

“You will not find it necessary to work for a long time afterwards if you do as I suggest,” Zarrif went on quietly. “I pay my people well, as anyone who has been in my service will tell you.”

“All right—I'm game,” Lovelace replied, simulating a stab of pain. “What time do we start?”

“My secretary, Cassalis, will meet you by the bookstall at the airport at one-thirty to-morrow. We shall leave shortly after. Good night.”

Zarrif pressed the bell upon his table, and three minutes later Lovelace heard the iron gates of the house clang to behind him.

He found the hired car up on the hillside. It was partly concealed by a group of cypresses. The moon had risen and showed the plain below almost as clearly as in daylight, but it showed something else as well. Valerie was seated in the driver's seat beside Christopher.

“What the hell're you doing here?” Lovelace snapped at her angrily. “Didn't I tell you …”

“Never mind what you told me,” she cut him short as she got out. “I'm my own mistress and I take orders from no one. I'm only here to mind the car and get you away more quickly.”

For a second he was minded to call off the whole business, but Christopher was beside him now, trembling with excitement and urging him to give his orders. No
such opportunity to get Zarrif might ever occur again. With sudden decision he gripped Christopher by the arm.

“You see the left end of the house. The last three windows on the first floor are those of Zarrif's bedroom. The next is the bathroom, and the fifth the lavatory. If you look carefully you'll see a dark streak running down from it. That's the two ends of a rope I bought this afternoon, took in round my waist, and threw out of the window a few minutes ago after passing it behind the pipe that runs up to the cistern. It'll bear you easily and it's not difficult to climb.

“Yes!” breathed Christopher. “Yes!”

Lovelace pulled the step-ladder and bag out of the back of the car. “Come on,” he said, and led the way off the road down the rocky slope.

Christopher had Valerie in his arms. With feverish lips he was kissing her all over her face. Suddenly he thrust her from him and scrambled after Lovelace down to the wall.

Lovelace was already getting his kit out of the big bag. It consisted of a large screw-hook, a pair of rubber gloves, a length of electric wire, a roll of insulating tape, a pair of wire cutters, and another length of rope.

Propping the steps against a near-by tree, he screwed the hook into the trunk about ten feet up, level with the wall top, then, passing the length of wire through it, he drew on his rubber gloves and, moving the steps, attached one end of it to the alarm wire above the wall. Next, he shifted the steps fifteen feet along, drew the loose wire taut through the hook, and performed the even more delicate operation of attaching its free end so that it would carry the current round the V and take the strain without sounding the alarm. Moving the steps again, he set them up half-way between the two joins.

“Be ready to run,” he whispered, glancing over his shoulder. With a set face he cut the alarm wire where it now formed the base of the triangle he had erected.

They held their breath for a second, fearing to hear the electric gongs shatter the silent night, but no sound broke the stillness.

“It's all right,” Lovelace muttered. “Pass me the rope.”

When Christopher handed it to him he threw one end of it over the wall in the centre of the gap where the wire had been a moment before, ran down the steps, and attached the other to the lower portion of the tree.

Christopher already had one foot on the steps. Lovelace caught him by the elbow. “Go canny when you reach the sill in case they've spotted the rope and are waiting for you. If they are, you'll have to drop and run. If all goes well, pull the rope by one end when you reach the ground again and bring it back with you. If you can do that they'll never know how you got in. We'll be waiting for you at the car. Up you go now and good luck to you!”

“Thanks,” Christopher gasped, “thanks,” and running up the steps he slipped noiselessly over the top of the wall into the garden.

Lovelace turned and scrambled up the hill. He found Valerie leaning against the car.

“Why did you come?” he panted. “Why the devil couldn't you keep out of this?”

“How—how could I leave him to come alone?” she whispered. Then he realised that she had given way at last and was weeping unrestrainedly.

He put his arm round her shoulders, muttering little phrases of comfort and encouragement as he fought to regain his breath. Her sobbing became a little less passionate. It faded to a whisper of quick-drawn gasps. All his anger with her for adding to his responsibilities by appearing on the scene had evaporated. She was in love with Christopher, that insane—or was he terribly sane?—idealist who was now struggling through the bushes towards the house. Lovelace's heart ached for her, but he could do nothing; only hold her closer and
watch the section of the moonlit garden that he could see across the wall.

“Anthony, I'm frightened,” she gasped suddenly. “I wish—I wish I hadn't come.”

She had never before called him by his first name. “I wish to God I'd succeeded in persuading you not to,” he said huskily.

“You're all against this, really, aren't you? It may be justice in the sight of God—as Christopher says—but actually its horrible to think about.”

“Yes,” he said slowly, “and whatever misery Zarrif may be plotting to bring on the world, he seems a decent sort. He was darned decent to me when I shammed illness so that I could fix that rope for Christopher to get into the house. I've never hated anything quite so much as giving him this chance to-night.”

“Oh, Anthony, Anthony, I feel just the same—but what else could we do?” She suddenly pressed against him and he held her tighter yet while her shoulders shook with a fresh burst of sobs.

“I ought to have gone in with him, although I never promised that,” he muttered. “He's such a boy. I had half a mind to, but—well, as you turned up I felt I couldn't leave you—in case things go wrong.”

“I'm glad I came, then—after all. This isn't your show. He must see it through himself …” She broke off suddenly. “Look! There he is, going up the rope. He's nearly reached the window.”

Christopher was swarming up the double rope hand over hand. Another moment and he gripped the window-sill. Cautiously he raised his head. The moon gave sufficient light for him to see that the room was empty. Heaving himself up, he wormed his way over.

Once inside the house he paused only long enough to get his pistol out of his pocket. He gripped the butt firmly in his right hand and advanced on tiptoe; his left hand outstretched to grasp the shadowy protuberance of the door knob. It turned noiselessly under his touch;
the door swung open and he stepped cautiously through it. From the plan of the house he knew that he was now in the small hallway. The valet's room must be opposite him, a few paces away, and Zarrif's bedroom to his left. The moonlight which silvered the bathroom behind him hardly penetrated sufficiently to lessen the close, heavy darkness. The gloom was only broken by a thin pale ribbon of light on the floor to the right; indicating the door of the room in which Lovelace had faced the grey, elderly Armenian less than a quarter of an hour before. Christopher passed his tongue over his dry lips and tried to still his breathing. It sounded like a rushing wind, which must alarm the household if he could not control it, as he stood there with the sweat streaming down his forehead. Nerving himself for the final effort, he ran his finger-tips lightly down the door until he found the handle, gave it a sudden twist, and flung it open.

Zarrif was seated quietly writing at his desk. As Christopher entered he swung round; his hand shot out towards his desk bell; but Christopher was quicker, and Zarrif withdrew his arm at the whispered caution when he saw the big black pistol, with its thick attachment like a silencer, pointed at his head.

“What do you want?” he challenged huskily, coming to his feet. “What do you want?”

“Your life!” whispered Christopher, his black eyes blazing in his thin, dead-white face. He stepped forward and thrust his weapon to within a yard of Zarrif's mouth. “You've forfeited it by your proved attempts to promote mass-murder. I am a
Miller of God
, sent to execute justice upon you.”