Free Microbes of Power (Wallace of the Secret Service Series) by Alexander Wilson Page B

supplied me with a vital item of information; that is, the fact that they departed from here on Wednesday morning by the Messageries Maritimes boat. Would you be good enough to tell me where that vessel goes from here?’
    ‘Constantinople, Naples, and Marseilles,’ was the prompt reply.
    ‘When is she due in Constantinople?’ asked Shannon quickly.
    ‘I am afraid I cannot say, but we will soon find out. I’ll ring up the shipping agents. Are there any other questions you wish me to ask them?’
    Shannon thought for a moment.
    ‘Only one, sir, but perhaps you can answer that. Where did Plasiras and Bikelas book to?’
    ‘Yes; I can tell you. They booked to Marseilles.’
    ‘Marseilles!’ Shannon rubbed his chin reflectively. ‘“Curiouser and curiouser” as Alice would say,’ he muttered to himself; and aloud: ‘Then the only question I want answered, sir, is the time of the boat’s arrival in Constantinople.’
    Stevenson nodded, and rang up the office of the steamship company’s agents. Shannon appreciated the act. Most high commissioners and governors with whom he had come into contact delegated every possible act to their secretaries. It was refreshing tofind a man who was so keen and eager to help that he acted himself. The information supplied by the agents delighted the Secret Service man. It was to the effect that the Ile-de-France was due to arrive in Constantinople that evening about six o’clock.
    ‘Splendid!’ he cried. ‘I was afraid that she would have already reached there. May I have a pad of scribbling paper and a cable form, sir? Sorry to give you all this bother.’
    ‘It’s no bother, I assure you. I am only too delighted to be of assistance.’
    Shannon was supplied with the required articles, and for some time there was no sound in that cool, well-shaded room but the scratching of his pen. At length he looked up.
    ‘Can this cable be sent from here, sir,’ he asked, ‘and the cost debited to the Foreign Office?’
    ‘Of course.’ The governor rang a bell, and an orderly entered almost at once. He was handed the form, and given his instructions. ‘Would it be asking too much if I enquired if that was for Sir Leonard Wallace?’
    Shannon smiled. He tore into minute pieces the sheet of paper on which he had written the message before committing it to the cable form. The communication from headquarters received the same treatment. He then lit a match and, placing the fragments on an ashtray, burnt them to ashes and crushed them to nothing.
    ‘That message,’ he explained, ‘was a complaint about the packing of a consignment of perfume, and was addressed to the agent of a well-known firm in Constantinople.’
    The governor stared at him.
    ‘Perfume!’ he exclaimed. ‘Constantinople!’
    Shannon laughed.
    ‘Actually,’ he told his puzzled host, ‘it has informed the agentof the Intelligence Department stationed in Constantinople that Plasiras and Bikelas are on the Ile-de-France due there this evening, and asked him to keep trace of them, if they land at that port, and inform me immediately.’
    ‘By Jove!’ murmured Sir Gordon Stevenson appreciatively. His eyes travelled from the ashtray, on which the dust of two secret messages lay, to the strong, clear-cut face of his guest. ‘That is what I call efficiency. I suppose you will repeat the same performance before the vessel arrives at Naples; that is, if Bikelas and Plasiras do not land at Constantinople?’
    Shannon shook his head.
    ‘No,’ he replied; ‘I shall be there to meet the boat.’
    Again the governor’s eyes opened wide in surprise.
    ‘But I don’t think you will be able to do it,’ he objected. ‘ The Ile-de-France will be ahead of any boat you can catch.’
    ‘I shall cross to Beirut, sir,’ Shannon informed him. ‘There are boats daily, are there not?’ Stevenson nodded. ‘Then I shall go by train to Damascus where there is an RAF depot, and get a lift to Naples.’
    His host laughed.
    ‘I