shot out, and the driver sprawled on the pavement.
Tommy took to his heels and ran–none too soon. The front door opened and
a hail of bullets followed him. Fortunately none of them hit him. He turned the
corner of the square.
“There’s one thing,” he thought to himself, “they can’t go on shooting.
They’ll have the police after them if they do. I wonder they dared to there.”
He heard the footsteps of his pursuers behind him, and redoubled his own
pace. Once he got out of these by-ways he would be safe. There would be a
policeman about somewhere–not that he really wanted to invoke the aid of the
police if he could possibly do without it. It meant explanations, and general
awkwardness. In another moment he had reason to bless his luck. He stumbled
over a prostrate figure, which started up with a yell of alarm and dashed off
down the street. Tommy drew back into a doorway. In a minute he had the
pleasure of seeing his two pursuers, of whom the German was one, industriously
tracking down the red herring!
Tommy sat down quietly on the doorstep and allowed a few moments to elapse
while he recovered his breath. Then he strolled gently in the opposite
direction. He glanced at his watch. It was a little after half-past five. It
was rapidly growing light. At the next corner he passed a policeman. The
policeman cast a suspicious eye on him. Tommy felt slightly offended. Then,
passing his hand over his face, he laughed. He had not shaved or washed for
three days! What a guy he must look.
He betook himself without more ado to a Turkish Bath establishment which he
knew to be open all night. He emerged into the busy daylight feeling himself
once more, and able to make plans.
First of all, he must have a square meal. He had eaten nothing since
midday yesterday. He turned into an A.B.C. shop and ordered eggs and bacon and
coffee. Whilst he ate, he read a morning paper propped up in front of him.
Suddenly he stiffened. There was a long article on Kramenin, who was described
as the “man behind Bolshevism” in Russia, and who had just arrived in
London–some thought as an unofficial envoy. His career was sketched lightly,
and it was firmly asserted that he, and not the figurehead leaders, had been the
author of the Russian Revolution.
In the centre of the page was his portrait.
“So that’s who Number 1 is,” said Tommy with his mouth full of eggs and
bacon. “Not a doubt about it, I must push on.”
He paid for his breakfast, and betook himself to Whitehall. There he sent
up his name, and the message that it was urgent. A few minutes later he was in
the presence of the man who did not here go by the name of “Mr. Carter.” There
was a frown on his face.
“Look here, you’ve no business to come asking for me in this way. I thought
that was distinctly understood?”
“It was, sir. But I judged it important to lose no time.”
And as briefly and succinctly as possible he detailed the experiences of
the last few days.
Half-way through, Mr. Carter interrupted him to give a few cryptic orders
through the telephone. All traces of displeasure had now left his face. He
nodded energetically when Tommy had finished.
“Quite right. Every moment’s of value. Fear we shall be too late anyway.
They wouldn’t wait. Would clear out at once. Still, they may have left
something behind them that will be a clue. You say you’ve recognized Number 1
to be Kramenin? That’s important. We want something against him badly to
prevent the Cabinet falling on his neck too freely. What about the others? You
say two faces were familiar to you? One’s a Labour man, you think? Just look
through these photos, and see if you can spot him.”
A minute later, Tommy held one up. Mr. Carter exhibited some surprise.
“Ah, Westway! Shouldn’t have thought it. Poses as being moderate. As for
the other fellow, I think I can give a good guess.” He handed another