The Trojan Horse

CHAPTER SIX

That evening remains vividly in my memory as a pleasant oasis. It had something of the quality of the lull before the storm. I think I was conscious of this at the time. With the exception of the brief chase by the Cones of Runnel, we had not crossed swords with the other side. So far it had been a game of hide-and-seek. But I was not fool enough to imagine that it would remain just a game. And I think it was that thought that added an almost unreal beauty to the evening. I felt an unnatural, almost hysterical gaiety. And there was Freya. For some reason that was essentially feminine she had brought an evening frock with her. Until then I had only seen her as a rather boyish creature, striking enough with her slim figure encased in slacks and her lovely sleek head. But when she came out of her room on to the dimly-lit landing in her dark-blue frock, I caught my breath. The boyishness was gone. Where I had taken her for a girl, I found a woman. The beauty of her made me wish that I was younger. I took her hand. ‘You look lovely,’ I said.

That was one of the happiest evenings of my life. Freya was in great spirits. I wished David could have been with us to see her. But at the same time I was glad he was not. We had both agreed upon the Palladium and it suited our mood. And when we came back, she insisted on my paying the taxi off at the top of Shaftesbury Avenue and walking home the rest of the way. It was a glorious moonlit night. ‘This is the first time I have seen London in a black-out,’ she said. Her voice was low and almost husky. I looked down at her. She was wearing the heavy gabardine cloak she had worn with her slacks, but it looked different now. It gave her height and poise. And from it rose the perfect oval of her face, pale in the moonlight. She was gazing upwards. ‘Isn’t it marvellous?’ she said. ‘See the way the moon picks out the steeple of that church. You scarcely even notice the moon in peace-time when all the street lights are on.’

I laughed. ‘Wait until you see the black-out on a dark night,’ I said. ‘It’s not the same at all when you walk down streets that seem like dark clefts. It gives you an unpleasant sense of desolation.’

At that she laughed and said, ‘But I’m seeing it in the moonlight so I can be happy. See how it shows up the Senate House.’ And we paused to look across the lifeless trees of Russell Square to the tall white block of the University building. As we did so I noticed out of the tail of my eye a car stop by the kerb a little way down Southampton Row. I don’t know why I suddenly had the feeling that it was following us. But I noticed that no one got out, and as we turned the corner into Guildford Street I saw it on the move again. I drew Freya into the dark doorway of a chemist’s shop and waited. The car crawled round the corner. There were two men in front and they were peering through the windscreen. Then the car accelerated and disappeared down the length of Guildford Street. I don’t think it was following us, but it had a dampening effect upon our gaiety and it was a sober, rather nervous pair that let themselves into their rooms.

The next morning I was up early and got my car out of its garage in Fetter Lane. Shortly after nine we were on the road. It was a blue-skied, friendly day, warm, with a hint of spring in the air. The drive would have been fun, if we had not both been weighed down with a sense of trouble ahead. When we arrived at Eastbourne I went straight to the office of one of the local newspapers. We were lucky, for the boy who had covered the Burston story was in. I handed him my card. ‘You may have heard of me,’ I said.

‘Why, yes, of course, sir. You’re interested in this business?’ he asked.

I told him that I was and that my own view was that it might not be an accident.

At that he said, ‘Well I’m glad there’s somebody thinks the same way as I do. I had a word with the local inspector, but he pooh-poohed the idea and told me that I was just out for copy. Do you know the Belle Toute?’ he asked.

I nodded.

‘Then you’ll remember the road bends sharp to the right there. Now the mist was pretty thick, I admit that. But this fellow Burston, who has lived in the neighbourhood for over four years, goes and turns sharp left. It doesn’t make sense to me. He may have been drunk, but I don’t see why he should be as drunk as all that. The air was cold and raw. It was enough to sober anyone up. And why was he on the Birling Gap road anyway? He came down from Willingdon and he lived at Alfriston. The direct way would have been to go through Old Town and straight up to the hills. Or, if he must go round by the Beachy Head road, he would have turned to the right when he got to the top of the downs and on to the East Dean road. Sedel said he had mentioned something about going over to see a friend at Birling Gap. But it was past midnight, and that’s a damned funny time to start making calls, especially on a filthy night like that.’

‘Sedel?’ I said. ‘Who is Sedel?’

‘The fellow at whose house he got drunk. Mind you, I’m not saying he wasn’t drunk. From all accounts the fellow has been drinking fairly heavily in recent months.’

But I had remembered what Henderson had said about a lovely place just outside Eastbourne. ‘Is this fellow’s name Max Sedel?’ I asked.

‘Yes, that’s right. Freelance journalist in the City.

He was very helpful to the police, I understand. But I didn’t get much out of him. I told him I thought it was extraordinary that a man should drive over the cliff like that on a road he must have known like the palm of his hand. But all he said was that a cub reporter trying to make a suicide out of it for the sake of copy wouldn’t help a poor fellow much.’

‘Was he married?’ I asked.

‘Who — Sedel? Oh, you mean Burston. No — but he had plenty of friends in the district. A bit of a rough diamond, I gathered.’

‘Any money troubles?’

‘No, not as far as I can gather. He made a pile out in Mexico, I’m told. He worked through a lot of it. But the inspector did mention that he had a pretty solid bank balance.’

‘Did you know that he held a big block of shares in one of our leading industrial companies?’

‘No, that’s the first I’ve heard of it.’

I nodded and picked up my hat. ‘If you’re interested,’ I said, ‘get the list of shareholders of the Calboyd Diesel Company. And then find out who has his holding now.’ I left him looking rather puzzled and we drove up South Street to the police station.

‘Where does this Max Sedel come in?’ Freya asked.

‘I don’t know yet,’ I replied, as I pulled the car up to the kerb. ‘But I think he comes in somewhere.’

We had to wait some time for the inspector who had handled the case. When he came out to see us, I explained to him that I was interested in the case and wanted to ask him a few questions. He had intelligent brown eyes and he looked at me rather closely, I thought, as he told me to go ahead.

‘First of all,’ I said, ‘are you taking the view that it was an accident?’

At that he smiled and said, ‘That’s rather a leading question, Mr Kilmartin.’ He seemed to hesitate. ‘Are you acting for anyone in this matter?’ he asked.

‘No,’ I said, ‘I can claim no sort of privilege. But I happen to be interested in another matter with which Burston was connected.’

‘I see.’ Again he hesitated, and glanced at Freya. I explained that she was also interested in the matter. Then he said, ‘Well, quite frankly, Mr Kilmartin, I don’t know. It looks like an accident. But it may be suicide — you never know. But, mind you, there’s nothing to suggest that it was, and I’m inclined to let well alone.’

‘There’s no question of foul play?’ I asked.

‘Any reason why there should be?’ he asked, and again I was conscious of his eyes watching me closely.

‘I just wondered,’ I said. ‘It seems strange that a man who had lived four years in the district should turn left instead of right at the one dangerous spot on the whole of the road.’

‘Yes,’ he said, fingering his jaw. ‘Yes, I did consider the idea of foul play. But there was nothing to suggest it. The marks of the car ran straight across the turf. He had no enemies, as far as we can tell, and no fortune that would benefit any relations.’

‘Had he any relations?’ I asked.

‘Well, we’ve unearthed an old aunt up at Sheffield. He was a Yorkshire man, you know. There’s no will, so she’ll take what the State doesn’t.’

‘Did he leave much?’

‘Nothing vast.’

‘What about his holding in the Calboyd Diesel Company? He owned the better part of a million shares.’

‘Yes, but he’d been speculating pretty heavily. They were all mortgaged.’

‘What bank?’ I asked.

‘It wasn’t a bank. It was the Southern Thrift Society.’

That was what I had wanted to know. ‘What about this fellow Sedel?’ I asked.

‘Seems all right. Burston certainly was drunk. The proprietor of the Wish Tower Splendide himself was at the party and vouches for that. He’s one of our councillors. The fellow had been drinking heavily since the outbreak of war. Seems it had got on his nerves.’

‘Did he go to London much?’

‘Occasionally.’

‘For the day?’

‘No, for a night or two usually.’

‘Where did he stay?’

‘His club.’

‘The name?’

‘The Junior First National.’

I could see the inspector was getting tired of my questions since they did not appear to help him. I thanked him. But as I took my leave, I suddenly felt a wicked urge and, turning to him, I said, ‘You know, Inspector, I think you’ll find it’s murder.’

He came after me at that. ‘Perhaps you’ll explain, sir,’ he said.

But I shook my head and laughed. ‘There’s nothing to explain,’ I said. ‘I know no more than you. But that’s my view.’ And I climbed into the car and left him looking very puzzled on the steps of the police station.

After that we drove down to the front and up the twisting road to the downs. It was the first time Freya had seen Beachy Head and she fell immediately in love with the rolling downland country, which looked soft and pleasant in the warm sunshine. From Beachy Head itself the road to Birling Gap snakes down behind the cliffs. Ahead of it stands the old Belle Toute lighthouse and, in that fresh light, it looked very white on its steep knoll. The lighthouse is used as a residence now and a tarmac drive runs down the steep grass slope to join the road at the foot. It is here that the road comes closest to the cliff with only twenty yards or so of flat turf between it and a three-hundred-foot drop. The road swings away sharp to the right to round the Belle Toute hill and drop to Birling Gap, and, as I drew into the car-park, I couldn’t for the life of me understand how a man, drunk or sober, could have turned left, instead of right, even in a mist.

We crossed the turf to the cliff edge. The marks of the car’s wheels were still faintly visible and the chassis had torn into the edge of the cliff, where it had plunged downwards. Freya held my arm and we walked to the edge. The cliffs of the Seven Sisters away to our left were very white against the blue sky, and gulls circled incessantly with their mournful cries. Down below us the waves washed against the white cliffs, creamy with chalk. We lay down and peered over the edge. Above the creaming waves we caught sight of a car’s wheels. I felt Freya’s body shudder and I helped her back.

We said nothing as we drove back to Eastbourne. I was busy working out the next move. Freya, I fancy, was thinking of her father. We had a hasty lunch at a hotel on the front and then drove back to town. I returned the car to its garage and, having put Freya on to a trolley-bus in the Gray’s Inn Road, I took a bus to Piccadilly Circus and strolled down Lower Regent Street to Pall Mall. I turned in at the junior First National, and after a little persuasion I was allowed to go through the list of members. Burston’s name was there, and a little farther down I saw the name of Cappock. Ronald Dorman’s name was also on the list. For a small club I noticed quite a number of famous names, mainly industrial. There was Lord Emsfield and Viscount Chalney, Baron Marburg, Sir Adrian Felphem, a sprinkling of cabinet ministers and one or two of the newspaper magnates. And among this fine array I noticed the name Sedel — Max Sedel — and looking back I found Sir James Calboyd and those of the other Calboyd directors.

I left the club with the feeling that I was at last getting somewhere. It was not just coincidence that all these people belonged to the same club. Of course, it was possible that they had met as a result of being members. But I was inclined to think that they had met first and that their membership of the same club was designed to allow them to meet without exciting comment. And what about Sedel? Where did he come in?

I found a call-box at the corner of Lower Regent Street and rang up Henderson. ‘Do you know anything about the Southern Thrift Building Society?’ I asked. ‘Who controls it?’

He said, ‘Hold on a minute and I’ll have a look at Moody’s card.’ After a moment he returned. ‘Well, I can’t say whether anyone in particular controls it, but Ronald Dorman is the chairman.’ And then he ran through the list of directors, none of whom I knew.

I thanked him and rang off. Ronald Dorman was the chairman and the building society held the whole of Burston’s shares in Calboyds. Things seemed to be falling into place. Whilst I was in the booth, I decided to ring up Crisham. As I dialled the Yard number, my next move was slowly taking shape at the back of my mind. My idea was to cause as much trouble for the other side as I could. I was put straight through to Crisham and was just telling him what I thought about the Burston business, when he cut me short. ‘I’ve been wanting to speak to you,’ he said, His voice was sharp, almost imperative, and I realised that he was worried. ‘First, about that boat of Llewellin’s. It arrived at Calboyds’ yard just before midday yesterday and we took possession. And a hell of a nuisance it was, because Calboyds were furious and got on to the Admiralty, and before I knew where I was the Chief Commissioner was on to me to know why I had taken such a step. Well, I had my way in the end, though I was told to release it as soon as possible. But — and this is the point — a fire broke out at the Calboyd yard about three this morning. I had two men on guard on the boat, but they considered it their duty to attend the fire. When they came back the boat was gone.’

‘Gone?’ I exclaimed. ‘My God, Crisham!’ I realised the futility of blaming him. ‘Go on,’ I said. ‘I suppose there’s no trace of it?’

‘None whatever,’ he replied. ‘The other thing I want to mention is that your club has been burgled. Amongst other things taken from the safe in the secretary’s room is that statement of yours. Look, Andrew,’ he said, and there was a tone of pleading in his voice, ‘don’t you think you’d better come out into the open. What is all this?’

‘There’s still the statement at my bank,’ I said.

‘I know. But I think it’s time you talked. Look, I shall be in this afternoon. If you care to pop round and tell me what you know, I think it’ll be good for us both.’

I hesitated. The boat was gone. Something had to be done. ‘All right,’ I said. ‘I’ll be there in half an hour.’ And I rang off. My mind was made up. I had got to frighten someone into an admission. I looked up Sedel’s number in the directory. I felt tensed up with excitement. But Sedel was out. Well, then, it would have to be Cappock. I jumped into a taxi. ‘Wendover Hotel,’ I said.

In a few minutes I was running up the steps of the hotel. ‘Is Mr Alfred Cappock in?’ I asked. He was and he would see me. I was taken up to a small but pleasantly furnished suite on the third floor overlooking the Green Park. A tall thin man with a slight stoop unfolded himself from an easy-chair drawn up close to the electric fire. He had an almost boyish-looking face, yet the skin was parchment-like and sallow. His eyes were pale and lack-lustre. On a table by his side was a decanter, a soda siphon and two glasses, both of which had been used. He waved me to the chair opposite him and as I sat down I had that peculiar sensation of having been expected that I experienced in Ronald Dorman’s office.

I had no time to waste and came straight to the point. ‘You are one of four big shareholders in Calboyds,’ I said.

He inclined his head in assent.

‘But of those four,’ I went on, ‘Sir James Calboyd is the only one who really owns his holding.’ I was watching him closely. My tone had been matter-of-fact, as though I were merely repeating what was common knowledge. I saw his dull eyes narrow. ‘Ronald Dorman got his big holding by purposely pitching the price of an issue too high,’ I told him. ‘But you and Burston were given yours. Did you know Burston?’ I asked.

‘Slightly,’ he said. His voice was soft, and he made no attempt to deny what I had said.

‘Of course,’ I went on, ‘you are members of the same club. You have read of Burston’s death, I suppose?’

He nodded. ‘He had taken to drinking rather too much.’

‘You’ve been primed with that.’ I spoke sharply and leaned slightly forward. It was a technique I had often used when cross-examining doubtful witnesses, and I had the satisfaction of seeing him flinch. ‘He was on the point of blabbing. He drank because he was scared.’ I paused, and then said quietly. ‘He was murdered.’

‘Oh, but-’

I cut him short. ‘He was murdered,’ I repeated. ‘Yes, murdered — just as you’ll be murdered when the time comes.’

His pale eyes were a little wider now. But I had no chance to press home my advantage. Out of the tail of my eye I caught a slight movement. And as I turned a soft suave voice said, ‘I am sorry to break in upon this melodramatic scene, Mr Kilmartin.’

The bedroom door was open and framed in it was the podgy little figure of Max Sedel. A revolver dangled carelessly from his right hand — an ugly little weapon fitted with a silencer — and in the light from the window I saw the gold of his signet ring glitter. ‘I have been expecting you,’ he said quite calmly. I met his eyes, and a shiver ran down my spine. They were narrow, steely slits in the puffy flesh of his face, and suddenly I knew what he reminded me of — a stoat. Sitting in his office, he had seemed to me essentially a sedentary man. I had thought him dangerous, but passively so. I had thought of him as a man who might prove useful to Germany, a man who could obtain valuable information. Now I saw him for what he really was. It showed in his eyes, in the poise of his small plump, almost feminine figure and in the careless way he held the gun. He was a gangster. Not just a common gangster, but that most dangerous of all gangsters, a fanatic with boundless ambition — a little Napoleon.

He picked up the phone and asked for a number. Cappock had risen to his feet. His sallow features seemed a shade paler, and the boyishness had gone from them so that they now looked sharpened and hard. I remained in my chair, my eyes fixed on Sedel. He was swinging the revolver rhythmically to and fro by the trigger-guard, and with the other hand he moved the mouthpiece of the receiver against his fair moustache with a soft caressing movement. Little silky golden hairs marked the line of the razor across his soft white cheeks. At last he got his connection. ‘We are waiting,’ was all he said, and replaced the receiver. Then he turned to me. ‘For a criminal barrister,’ he said, ‘you’re an incredible fool. Did you imagine that you could go around, openly asking awkward questions, with complete impunity? Mein Gott! It is always the same with you stupid English. You never plan ahead. You think you’ll always muddle through somehow. Well, this is the end of your muddling. You’re through. The whole lot of you are through. In a few months we shall be running everything for you.’

‘And massacring the people, as you have massacred them in Poland,’ I said, my tone bitter with contempt.

He laughed. It was a high-pitched sound, something like a giggle. ‘Maybe,’ he said. ‘We don’t do things by halves. That’s where you people always fall down. You don’t plan and you’re never thorough. You’re too squeamish. If you intend to conquer a race, you must conquer them. And that means that you must ruthlessly subdue them. If you only half do the job, they’ll rise against you as soon as your back is turned. But England will not rise again once we have conquered her — never.’

‘And all this just because you’ve stolen a diesel engine from a defenceless old Jew?’ I asked.

‘Defenceless old Jew!’ he exclaimed, and for a moment I thought he would spit on the carpet. ‘A damned traitorous swine. That engine belongs to the Reich, and back to the Reich it will go.’

‘And how do you propose to get it there?’ I asked scornfully.

He looked at me. ‘You want to know too much, my friend.’

At that I forced a laugh. ‘You talk of organisation,’ I said with fine scorn. ‘You have me at your mercy, yet you’re so afraid that I shall escape that you daren’t give me even the most obvious information. There’s only one way you can get it out of the country, and that is in a neutral ship bound for a neutral port. And that’s where you lose. You’ve no conception of the meaning of contraband control, though you would have if you lived in Germany and faced the pinch with the rest of your country. Germany never had a navy that had the freedom of the seas, so you don’t understand the meaning of naval efficiency. You’ve as much chance of getting that engine through to a neutral country as of flying it there.’

I saw the flush spread from his neck to his white cheeks, and I knew I had succeeded. He strode up to me and struck me across the face. I did not move, but sat watching his eyes. ‘Your navy!’ he sneered. ‘Where does your precious navy look — why, in the hold of a ship. You smug, foolish little lawyer! In three days that engine leaves the country. A day later it will be in Germany. Everything is ready — the materials, the skilled workers, everything. In six months from now our planes will be bombing your towns with impunity.’

He was interrupted by a knock at the door. He motioned Cappock to answer it. The man crossed the room. His stoop was very noticeable. He opened the door slightly and peered out. Then he pulled it wide open and two men came in, dressed in a dark-brown livery and carrying a large tin box between them. It was black and had the name A. Cappock painted in white on the lid. It was a deed-box of the type you see trundled in and out of banks in the City. But it was a good deal larger than the ones I was accustomed to seeing. ‘Cappock’s deed-box and your coffin,’ Max Sedel told me.

Until that moment, I think the whole scene had appeared somewhat unreal to me. I had seen much of the seamy side of London and other big cities. I knew that strange things happened behind the quiet façade of these places. But those who live in London never fear it. The strange happenings they read of never touch them, never break the daily routine of their lives. My eyes turned to the window. I could see the bare black branches of the trees in the park. Soon they would be green, with the bright fresh green of spring. My heart overflowed with the longing to see that spring green again. The cold wretched winter was a thing of the past. Ahead lay the spring, with promise of new things. And in that moment it was of Freya I thought. My eyes travelled from Sedel’s revolver to the tin box and back again to the revolver. But my brain scarcely registered what my eyes saw, for my mind was occupied with a picture of that oval face, with the slender arch of the eyebrows and wide dark eyes above the finely chiselled nose. I saw down the whole corridor of my life, and where I had before been satisfied with it, with my success as a criminal barrister, with my wide circle of friends, with the pleasant times I had had, I now found it empty and lifeless. And the park would soon be green again! Yet I was to end my life inconspicuously, murdered because I knew too much. I felt a sudden rage. Was I to let life be taken from me just as I had found something that made it so precious?

I had risen to my feet and stood facing Sedel. ‘You fool!’ I said. ‘Do you think I haven’t prepared for this? You have burgled my club to get a statement of mine that I left with the secretary. But do you imagine that that was the only statement?’

He smiled. He had recovered his self-possession. ‘So, you have another statement? That was to be expected. But I do not think your friend Crisham will pay much attention to it. By describing this tin box as your coffin, I fear I have given you a wrong impression. You will live — for a time. And during the next few weeks you will send Crisham a number of statements. You will accuse various public men of crimes against the State, and each accusation will be more fantastic than the last. By the time he has checked up on a few of these accusations he will not be inclined to pay much attention to the original statement when it is placed in his hands. Nor will he be altogether surprised when he hears that you are an imposter and that the real Kilmartin is dead. You will be regarded as a madman.’

‘And who is to sign these false statements?’ I asked.

‘Why you, of course.’

‘You know I shall not,’ I replied hotly.

‘Oh, but I think you will, Mr Kilmartin.’ There was a gleam in his eyes, and the relief, which I had felt at realising that my death was deferred for the time being, vanished and my heart sank. The rubber truncheon, the steel-cored whip and all the other horrors of the concentration camp filled my mind. I had heard about these things so often. But they had been something remote, like a flood in China or an earthquake in South America. They had not touched me. I tried to think that torture was no longer a weapon used by civilised nations. I tried to persuade myself that this sort of thing could not possibly happen in the middle of London. But I knew it could. I knew that though I was in a well-known hotel in Piccadilly, I was as far beyond the pale of legal protection as I should be in Germany itself.

My eyes suddenly met Sedel’s and I braced myself. The little blighter was watching me with a faint smile on his lips. The gleam was still in his eyes, and at that moment I think I understood him. Germany is essentially an athletic country, and this man was no athlete. Physically he was weak. There is nothing so deadly as a man whose ambition is spurred on by an inferiority complex. Sedel’s absorbing interest in life, as I saw it then, was power. Not power in the big sense. But physical power. The power of life and death. The power to torture. For seven years he had laboured in a hostile country to build up a position that would give him the power to kill men. Now he was realising the first fruits of those labours. And as I looked into those eyes I saw stark bestial cruelty. The man was a sadist, and I had a horrible fear that his sadism would take a mental as well as a physical form. He might even drive me mad.

An awful horror surged through me at that thought. It centred itself upon the deed-box. I always had a horror of being shut up in a place with no means of getting out. It was a mild form of claustrophobia. It was sheer terror more than anything else that gave me courage. With a sudden movement, I sprang at him, swinging my fist as I came. He was not prepared for this sudden rush. He had no time to use his gun. I am a fairly heavy man, and he caught the full force of the blow on the mouth. I felt his teeth splinter. I swung my left to his stomach and dived for the door.

But the two men in livery cut me off. I turned back and flung myself on Sedel’s gun, which he still held in his hand as he sprawled, writhing across a table. My fingers closed on the steel barrel and I wrenched it from him. Then I turned, and I knew the game was up. I have a very vivid picture of that split second before I passed out. It remains in my mind like a still from a film. I can’t remember anyone moving. All I remember is one of the liveried men stooping forward towards me, his right hand half-raised and clutching the soda-water siphon by the neck. Across the knuckles of his hand ran a thin white scar. I also remember quite clearly that on the lapels of his jacket were eagles, swooping on their prey, emblazoned in gold. And then I knew nothing more until I awoke to the gentle movement of a car going slowly.

A great pain in my head came and went, came and went, in agonising rhythmic waves. Like a gentle murmur at the back of my brain I heard the engine of a car, and there were voices, too, but they sounded very far away. For a moment everything went blank again. Then I noticed that the car had stopped. And almost immediately started again. And alongside it was the pulsating roar of a diesel-engined vehicle gathering way.

For a time I could not think what had happened. Consciousness kept coming and going with the hammer strokes in my head. For a moment I thought I must have been involved in a street accident, for I had guessed that the diesel-engined vehicle had been a bus. I could hear faintly the sound of the London streets all about us and I felt certain that I was in an ambulance, being taken to hospital. Then, suddenly, I remembered the blow. It was not the actual blow that I remembered, but the picture I had seen as I turned, the man with his upraised arm, the little white scar and the eagles on his lapels.

And then an awful terror came upon me. Had I been blinded? I could see nothing. Yet I knew it should be daylight. Or, at any rate, there should be a gleam of light in the car. But though I opened my eyes wide, everything was as black as pitch. Men’s voices sounded quite close to me, though muffled. I tried to put out my hand to attract their attention. But I could not move. I tried to speak. But something seemed to stifle the words in my throat.

A sudden panic seized me. I cried out. I screamed. I struggled. It was like one of those awful nightmares in which you cannot move. At length I lay still, exhausted. And it was only then that I realised that I was bound and that there was a gag in my mouth. I tried to move my head, but found I could not. And then I remembered the tin box, and for hours it seemed I struggled with a terrible hysteria. But though I eventually calmed myself, I had a horrible fear that I might never be let out. And then I began to develop cramp. I don’t know which was worse, the physical pain in my joints or the mental horror of being shut up in that tin box for ever. And the strange thing was that I could not move my arms, legs or head the fraction of an inch. I was fixed to that tin box as though I were a dummy clamped into position.

At length the car stopped and there was much scraping of boots on the floor. The doors were opened just near my head and the familiar sounds of the London streets became suddenly clear. I heard a news-vendor crying the late night final and the murmuring shuffle of countless feet. I guessed that it must be rush-hour. My box shook violently and I heard the sound of a man’s breathing. And then I toppled over on to my side. Instinctively I tried to break my fall. But I could not move my hand. And anyway there was no fall. A second later I was on my head. The tin box grated on the road surface, and then I was righted and laid down on a little trolley. The iron wheels rang as it was pulled up the kerb. For a moment we were held up on the pavement. Quite plainly I heard one passer-by saying, ‘I was just speaking to old Jessop in the House and he told me …’ The rest was lost. But the word ‘House’ had given me a clue to my whereabouts. And this was confirmed when I heard another voice say, ‘… you were coming. You’re going to Liverpool Street, aren’t you? Well, I’m going to the Bank. Cheerio.’ I was in the City. ‘House’ meant the Stock Exchange.

I tried to attract the attention of those countless office workers, who hurried past my tin coffin to their firesides in the suburbs. I struggled and screamed. But I made no audible sound. The wheels rumbled across the pavement and bumped a step. Then we were crossing stone again, but the sound was different, and I knew we were inside a building. Then we stopped, and I heard a thick voice cursing the lift. When my carriage was manoeuvred into it, we went down, not up — and down a long way, it seemed. Then more stone passages that had an echoing ring like vaults.

At last came the moment when my box was lifted off the trolley. The journey was over and I felt an indescribable longing to see something and to move. ‘Is he right way up?’ I heard a voice ask. The answer was a grunt. ‘Wouldn’t do to let him die of apoplexy, would it?’ the voice said. There was a chuckle at that, and then footsteps sounded on a stone floor. They were going away from me. They were leaving me. I cried out and struggled. I felt I should stifle. Then I heard the soft thud of a heavy door closing, and suddenly I went limp.

The practice of the Spanish inquisitors — and others before and since them — of walling people up has always had for me a particular horror, and, like all horrors, a particular fascination. I had often thought about that death and how terrible it must be. I know now just how terrible it can be. And I also know that that terror has its limitations. When that door closed, I really believed I was as near to madness as a man ever can be without actually going mad. The stillness, the sense of being deserted, the utter loneliness filled me with a childish terror. Suppose I were in an old river tideway? I was in the City and deep underground. Suppose I had been left here to drown as the tide slowly rose? I could hear small sounds that I knew instinctively to be rats. But the sound of the boots on the floor had been the sound of leather on dry stone.

It was not drowning I feared. And the more my imagination ranged, the more I began to wish that I had been placed in a tideway. At least it would be a quick death. As the alternative, I saw myself crouching in that tin box, immovable for days, whilst starvation and the intolerable ache of my limbs drove me mad. I did not fear death then. Death, I knew, would be the release. But I did fear madness. And for hours, it seemed, I struggled to get a grip of myself. At last I succeeded in resigning myself to my fate. I allowed my imagination to picture the worst, to picture my skin sagging on my bones as I hung suspended in the box and to picture the horrible twisted skeleton I should eventually be. And then, when I had allowed myself to come face to face with the ultimate end, with thirst and pain, I felt calm and resigned. My restricted circulation caused me great pain. But, now that I had faced the worst and conquered my fear, I knew I could stand it.

For a time I think I lost consciousness. Whether the pain was too great or whether I slept, I do not know. But, when my brain became active again, I knew that some considerable time had passed. By then my nerves had become dulled to the pain and my brain no longer seemed linked to my body. It was active and quite above the physical. It ranged of its own accord around the problem that had got me into this fix. And in a moment, it had seized upon a few small points and leapt to the wildest conclusion.

And the strange thing was that I knew it was the right conclusion. I felt no elation. My mind was too dulled for that. But I was glad that I had at least pieced the bits together and achieved a pattern. It made Sedel and his gang of secret agents seem less terrifying. Even my own terrible predicament seemed suddenly of little importance.

For the past two days my mind had been fed with scraps and had tried to piece those scraps into a whole. There had been Schmidt and the message I had decoded. There had been the man with the scar on his knuckles who had followed me from David Shiel’s studio to my club. There had been Freya and the Cones of Runnel and the boat that had been requisitioned. And then there had been the three Calboyd shareholders — Ronald Dorman, with his sumptuous façade of affluence, John S. Burston, who had been driven over the cliffs below the Belle Toute, and Alfred Cappock. And behind these had been Max Sedel, sleek, well-groomed and efficient, a first-class agent and entirely ruthless.

But none of these mattered. They were the puppets. They were pawns in a game played by a master hand. Behind them loomed the heavy sleepy-eyed figure of Baron Ferdinand Marburg. It was incredible. He was head of the big merchant banking house of Marburg. He was a pillar of the country’s financial system. More, he was reputed to be a member of the shadow cabinet. He was a man of tremendous influence and great power — a man, in fact, above suspicion. But, now I had named him, I did not for a moment doubt that I was right.

Sedel had supplied the link in my mind. It was Baron Marburg who had introduced him to journalism. Once having remembered that, everything else fell neatly into place. His membership of the Junior First National. The golden Marburg eagles on the lapels of the man who had hit me in Cappock’s suite. And the scraps of conversation I had heard on the pavement outside my prison. Marburgs stood on the corner between Old Broad Street and Threadneedle Street. Two clerks coming out of the bank would part company on the doorstep if one were going to the Bank tube station and the other to Liverpool Street. Moreover, it was just across the road from the Stock Exchange. Then again, the depth we had descended in the lift. No building but a bank would have vaults so deep. Besides, there was the method Sedel had chosen of removing me from the Wendover. A deed-box, even of such large dimensions, would excite no curiosity, being trundled from the bank’s own strong room van to the vaults by men in the bank’s own livery.

But I couldn’t for the moment see what the man had to gain by it. Perhaps it was one of the departmental heads and not Marburg who was implicated? But I discarded that theory at once, for no one but Marburg had made over a million pounds available to both Burston and Cappock. Perhaps it was money? But I argued that a man who had a world-wide reputation as a financial genius would have no need to play such a dangerous game to make money. There remained only power as the motive. And to this, the answer seemed clear. He had enough power in this country.

But then I remembered something that Peter Venables of the Foreign Office had told me more than a year ago. Marburg’s position as a power in the shadow cabinet had been checked badly when the Government at last swung round to a policy of rearmament. He had strongly opposed it. He had always been a great advocate of close Anglo-German relations and had favoured a secret alliance against the Soviets. He had demanded censorship of the press to prevent the growing virulence of the attacks on Germany. He had not openly favoured Hitler. But he had argued strongly that it was to England’s advantage to see Germany all-powerful in Eastern Europe. He had emphasised that a strong Germany was our best safeguard against Bolshevism. But apparently other influences had been at work, especially heavy industry, and his position had been seriously impaired.

Supposing that he had then realised that power — supreme power — was not to be obtained by any one man under a democratic system? He was a dynamic personality, I had been told. I had never talked to him myself. But I had seen him, and I could still remember that powerful, rather stocky figure, with the heavy face and sleepy, heavy-lidded eyes. I had heard him speak at a Guildhall banquet once. His deep baying voice had had fire and eloquence. Above all, he believed in himself — believed in his destiny, perhaps.

Suppose that, having realised the futility of our own democratic system as a ladder to power — even by the back stairs of the shadow cabinet — he had received an offer of supreme power from Germany. Suppose Baron Ferdinand Marburg was Britain’s Führer-designate. That would explain everything. I remembered how much to the fore he had been over that Czech gold business, and then earlier there had been much talk of big reconstruction loans by the banking house of Marburg. Unlike some other big international merchant banking houses, the Berlin and Paris houses of Marburg were directly controlled from London. I remembered Schmidt’s phrases about a cancer at the heart of England, and what I had then thought to be melodramatic now seemed to be an understatement. I saw that heavy face with the square, powerful jaw and the high forehead, and those sleepy eyes hooded like a hawk. And I knew that that face spelt doom to Britain — that the influence of that one man, if unchecked, was more serious than the loss of several major battles at the front.

And then suddenly the pain in my head returned, and my brain, which had been working with remarkable clarity for a short time, became dulled again. I don’t know whether I slept or fell unconscious. At any rate, I knew nothing until I dreamed that my tin box and I were being pitched into the Thames and woke in a cold sweat to find the box being tilted backwards and the scratch of keys against the locks. The next instant my eyes were blinded by a glare of light as the lid swung back.

My bonds were undone and I was released from the clamps that held me secure in the box. I was laid on the cold stone floor and my limbs were so stiff that I could not move them. Then began the agony of returning circulation. I think I cried out with the pain. And when I was not half-screaming with agony I was unconscious.

But the pain gradually lessened and, although the light still hurt my eyes, I was able to take stock of my surroundings. I was sprawled on the floor of what looked like a cellar, it had a vaulted stone roof, black with cobwebs and dirt, and from it, suspended by its flex, hung a naked electric bulb. The walls, too, were of stone — great square blocks that reminded me of London Wall. And at intervals round the walls hung rusty chains. I could almost imagine that I was in one of the dungeons of the Tower. The place was empty save for the tin box, which stood upright against one wall like an instrument of torture on show. The lid had been pulled back like the door of a small safe, and inside I could see the clamps and straps which had held me in position. It was only then that the relief of being out of it flooded through me. And with that relief came an overwhelming and ghastly fear of being imprisoned in it again. The box seemed to fascinate me, for it was not until a voice said, ‘I trust you were not too uncomfortable,’ that I turned my gaze upon the two men who had released me and who were now standing by the half-open door.

One was Sedel and the other was the man with the scar on the back of his hand. It was Sedel who had spoken, and there was something feline about the way he watched me. His lips were swollen and black against the white of his face. Two of his front teeth were missing. But I felt no satisfaction at the damage I had done him. He had me at his mercy and I knew he would repay me a hundredfold for that blow.

He seemed to read my thoughts, for his cracked lips spread into a smile. ‘That blow of yours was unfortunate, Mr Kilmartin,’ he said. ‘I think you will find that I repay — with a high rate of interest.’ He came forward, and in his hand he held a sheet of paper. ‘Will you kindly sign this statement?’

He placed it in my hand. As in a dream I read it through. It was to Crisham, accusing a well-known steel magnate of over-quoting for gun-turrets. It gave details of conversations with works foremen and of estimates obtained from other firms. With weak, shaking fingers I tore the document up, and looked defiantly at Sedel.

But he only smiled. ‘Yes, I had been expecting that. I have had a number of other copies typed.’ And he pulled another from his pocket. ‘Now,’ he said, ‘are you going to sign?’

‘Of course not,’ I said. But deep within me a horrible fear was growing.

He turned to the other fellow. ‘Hans,’ he said, ‘come and help me get this fool back into his box.’

I tried to struggle, but I was as weak as a kitten. In a few minutes I was once again clamped into position inside the box. The door closed and suddenly I was in darkness again. I heard the keys scraping in the locks. I struggled, but I was held as firmly as in any nightmare. And then suddenly I lost control of myself. Panic seized me. I heard myself sobbing. They had not gagged me this time. And then I was screaming, screaming with uncontrollable fear.

And through my senseless cries I heard Sedel say, ‘Well, are you going to sign or shall we leave you for the night?’

For the night! At that I stopped screaming. It would be hours and hours. They might never come. They might lose the key or forget about me. ‘Don’t leave me,’ I sobbed.

‘Will you sign?’

‘Yes, I’ll sign,’ I cried. ‘I’ll do anything, only let me out of this.’

I heard the scrape of the keys again and, as the lid was pulled open, my panic subsided, leaving me weak and disgusted with myself. I signed the document, using the top of the box as a writing-table. I knew it was useless to resist. I could not face that box again. When I had finished, Sedel took the paper and laughed. His hand stretched out and gripped my hair, tilting my head backwards so that I was staring up into his face. ‘So, you weren’t going to sign, eh?’ he said, and his eyes gleamed. Then he flung me away from him so that I fell sprawling across the floor. ‘Tonight you are free,’ he said. ‘Free to lie here and think about tomorrow. For tomorrow you will go back to your kennel again.’

I saw that he meant it. But I had control of myself again now. I rose painfully to my feet. Then I played my last card, hoping against hope that it would prove an ace. He had his back to me and was moving towards the door. ‘Perhaps you would take me to Baron Marburg,’ I said.

I had the satisfaction of seeing him swing round on me. His eyes searched mine. ‘So,’ he said, ‘you know all our little secrets.’ There was a sneer in the way he said this. ‘You are cleverer than I thought, Mr Kilmartin. May I ask why you wish to see the Baron?’

‘I have a proposition to make to him.’

At that he laughed in my face. ‘A proposition — you! To save yourself from Cappock’s deed-box, you will tell the Baron where we can find Schmidt’s daughter, perhaps?’ He crossed the room to where I stood, rather unsteadily supporting myself against the wall, and he was laughing softly to himself. ‘Or perhaps you know where Schmidt himself is?’

‘So you don’t know where Schmidt is?’ That pleased me a lot, for I felt that if Schmidt were at liberty and no longer wanted by the police, he might be able to do something.

‘No, but I think you may be able to help us there,’ he replied.

I had complete control of myself again now. ‘I think it would be best if you took me to Baron Marburg,’ I said. I spoke calmly, confidently, and I saw at once that my sudden change of mood puzzled him. ‘Baron Marburg,’ I went on, ‘plans to wreck this country and assume the powers of a dictator under the post-war German control. He thinks, I suppose, that because he is Baron Marburg, he is above suspicion. And whilst he is dreaming of power, he is in imminent danger of losing his life.’ I felt the thrill I always had when delivering my final address to the jury. ‘You wonder why he is in imminent danger of his life? Well, I can answer that for you, Sedel. It is because of your bungling. My God, man, do you think you can murder men with impunity in this country as you can in Germany? You killed Burston. And the police know it. You were fool enough to send him straight from a party at your house to his death. Did you never pause to think that that might immediately link you with his death? Why did Burston take the Birling Gap road? And why, when he knew the country so well, did he turn left, instead of right, at the foot of the Belle Toute? You might have got away with it, if the British Secret Service had not been on your track. You knew what Evan Llewellin was? You knew he was a secret agent. You know that Schmidt is no longer wanted for his murder? But do you know why? Because a petty thief saw and described the two men who murdered Llewellin. And now will you take me to your chief?’

I looked him full in the face, and his eyes would not meet mine. But his fear made him venomous. ‘What’s it matter?’ he snapped, half to himself. ‘We have the engine. Soon we shall have Schmidt. As for you,’ and he suddenly faced me, his eyes glittering, ‘you will not harm us. The talk of a madman can harm no one. That is what you’ll be when I have finished with you. Mad! Do you hear? Mad! Tomorrow you go back to your box.’ And he turned on his heel with his laugh like a soft giggle. His henchman followed him, and the door closed behind them with a dull thud. A key grated in the lock. An instant later the light went out and I was in the dark.