The Trojan Horse

CHAPTER NINE

Wilson’s Wren Wharf is on the south side of the river, in Rotherhithe. My taxi set me down in a narrow, dusty street lined with warehouses. On a week-day, I had no doubt, the street would have been full of the movement of wagons and vans as the hand-cranes loaded the contents of the warehouses for transport. But now the cranes were folded back against the blackened brick of the buildings, which ran, uniform in height and appearance, the whole length of the street. In the bright wintry sunshine the place presented an appearance of desolation that the gleaming line of parked cars only served to accentuate.

It was just on three as I walked through the archway beneath one of the warehouses and caught my first glimpse of the Thirlmere, her superstructure and funnels towering over the concrete wharf. Iron-barred gates guarded the entrance to the wharf and here my pass was scrutinised. There were several policemen standing about, but I could see no one who was likely to recognise me. I was passed through in the wake of a party of three, whom I judged by their conversation at the gates to be industrialists. All were dressed in sporting clothes — probably they had spent the morning playing golf. Dressed as I was in an old tweed suit of Fisher’s, this was to my advantage, and, as I crossed the wharf, I closed the distance, so that, as I climbed the gangway to the deck of the Thirlmere, I was close behind them. It was well that I did so. At the head of the gangway two volunteers for Finland stood guard with fixed bayonets. They were dressed in mufti, but wore armlets. As I stepped on to the deck of the ship, my eyes, which I had kept lowered, noticed the hand of the left-hand guard as it held his rifle. Across the knuckles ran a thin white scar. For a second my heart leapt to my throat. I expected to hear the rattle of the rifle being raised and the sound of a challenge. Then I was walking along the deck in the wake of the three industrialists, who were talking audibly of Russia, and I knew that my fears had been groundless. Dressed in brown tweeds with a virulent yellow tie and a green pork-pie hat, it was hardly to be expected that a fellow who had seen me only three times in his life, and always in the sober garb of my profession, should recognise me. Besides, when I had shaved, I had left my upper lip. My beard is of the fast-growing variety, and though I had only been without a shave for just over fifty hours, my moustache was already quite a healthy one. At the same time, I had allowed myself rather long side pieces and had acquired a pair of glasses.

The Thirlmere was a Norwegian ship designed specifically for the transport of locomotives and railway rolling stock. Doubtless she had been chosen for this particular job because she was a handy vessel for a difficult cargo. But I fancied there was another reason also. She had the necessary winch gear for loading and unloading under her own steam locomotives weighing many tons. If necessary, she would be able to unload the Calboyd torpedo boat at sea. I could see no sign of this boat as I came on board. But I noticed that a cradle had been rigged up at the after end of the big well deck, and presumed that the boat had still to come aboard. Flat against the poop stood the great girder to which rolling stock was slung, and beneath it, on the well deck, eight tanks were parked shoulder to shoulder, and lashed down with thick wire hawsers. They were coated thick with grease to protect them against the salt spray. About a dozen more stood on the wharf. Presumably they had been left until after the service, so that there was room to hold the ceremony in the well deck.

It was in this deep well deck that the crowd was gathering, facing for’ard towards the bridge. Before mingling with it, I glanced quickly towards the neighbouring wharf. Two black figures were seated on the base of one of the cranes and an empty rowing boat bobbed at the foot of a wooden ladder. I felt a twinge of conscience. Beyond the Percivale Banana Company’s wharf the river curved away towards Limehouse Reach, a broad expanse of sluggish water lined with empty wharves. No traffic moved and few ships were berthed along the huddled banks. Only barges jostled each other as they strained to the turning tide.

My gaze turned to the bridge of the Thirlmere. On it stood two clergymen in their white surplices and several frock-coated gentlemen, among whom I recognised Sir James Calboyd, a young-looking elderly man, with a very shiny top hat over his silvery hair and a rather ostentatious monocle. Directly beneath the bridge the choir stood facing us, and a little to one side an elderly man sat bowed over a harmonium. Glancing round amongst the crowd, which was a queer mixture of morning-dress and sports clothes, I caught sight of Sedel’s short puffy figure. He was standing amongst a group of frock-coated individuals, but I saw that, though he was talking most of the time, his little eyes were darting here and there amongst the crowd. I moved as far away from him as I could. I fancied that if my eyes at any time met his, my disguise would be pierced at once. I had barely taken up my new position when the old man at the harmonium came to life. Then Baron Ferdinand Marburg, accompanied by the Finnish Minister, came out on to the bridge. As he reached the front of it, he removed his hat. His sleek, well-groomed hair gleamed in the sunlight. At once the buzz of conversation ceased. All eyes were fixed upon that massive, black-coated figure. Cameras clicked and the faint whirr of the news cameras could be heard. In that instant Marburg dominated the whole scene. That great head with its thick black eyebrows and square jaw was striking enough beneath the sleek black hair. But, as ever, it was the eyes that drew the gaze of everyone. For one moment those deep-set sockets were alive, as he took in the scene before him, and then the heavy eyelids had hooded them and that powerful face might have been cut in stone for all the life that showed in it.

Then the service started. It did not take long. A stirring hymn, a few prayers for Finland, and finally the dedication. And when all the deadly cargo of that ship had been dedicated to the service of God, Marburg addressed the assembly. I cannot remember what he said. In print it would not, I fancy, seem inspired. In fact, what he said was probably quite banal. It was the man himself who held that crowd spellbound. Not because his eloquence gripped them, not because he wrung tears of pity from them on Finland’s behalf, but because of the power he radiated. His great sombre voice boomed out across the bows of that ill-fated ship, even and monotonous, but with a terrible sense of the power of the speaker. I can remember only one sentence. ‘I am going to Finland myself on this ship,’ he said, ‘to see how desperate things are and what must be done.’ And the impression left was that the Russian forces would melt away at the speaker’s arrival.

And when he had finished, there was a deathly silence. It was broken by the usual British enthusiasm for cheers. And so they cheered Baron Ferdinand Marburg on his way to Germany, and I stood there silent, wondering what the hell I was going to do about it.

Two things I had discovered since I had come on board. The first was that the volunteers were, as I had suspected, Marburg’s own picked men. The second was that Marburg was sailing with the Thirlmere. That could only mean one of two things — either this was his planned exit, or it meant that his position was getting precarious. I hoped it was the latter, for then something might result from my visit to Fisher. Apart from using the statement I had given him as the basis for a story, he had promised to have copies made straight away. One was to be sent to the Chief Commissioner and another to the Air Minister himself. ‘If all this is true,’ Fisher had said, ‘there are bound to be some loose threads somewhere. There always are in any big move of this sort. No one knows anything about it, until someone turns up to give the show away, and then all the little pieces fall into place. And the loose threads, the pieces of the jig-saw, will either be in the hands of the police or in the hands of the Intelligence.’ That had seemed the best I could do. Fisher was Scot enough to be obstinate once he had got an idea into his head. I had not made the mistake of trying to plead the truth of my statement as though I needed to defend it. I had just told it simply to him and left him to judge its truth.

But as I stood on that crowded well deck, looking up at the impassive mask-like features of Marburg, I wondered whether there was not something else I could do. I felt the need for action. I felt the need to go to someone in authority — the Chief Commissioner, for instance, or a member of the Cabinet — and get them to act. But I knew that, because I could convince a man like Fisher, it did not necessarily mean that I could convince a Cabinet minister or a policeman. Fisher was a newspaper man. In him the will to believe was there, for it was a story. But anyone in authority would be unwilling to believe something that placed upon his already overweighted shoulders further responsibility. And though I felt the need for action, I knew that it was best left to Fisher. The best I could hope for myself would be that they would believe me. Action was another matter, and would only be reluctantly taken after everything had been checked and re-checked. But Fisher, with a powerful newspaper behind him, could demand action and, because of the threat of publicity, might be able to get it. I had left him in a state of growing excitement. ‘It’s terrific, Kilmartin,’ he had said, as he handed me the ten pound notes I had asked for. ‘I’ll get on to Sir John Keif — he’s our proprietor, you know. He’ll start things moving and we’ll get action in no time.’

I could only hope he was right. In just over twenty-four hours the Thirlmere would be steaming down the Thames. It seemed short enough time in which to get action. True the Thirlmere would have a naval escort as far as Norwegian territorial waters. That gave them another twelve hours, or perhaps a little more, in which to make up their minds. In all they had, perhaps, a little over thirty-six hours. Even as I arrived at this conclusion, the Finnish minister closed his speech amidst tumultuous cheers and Lord Waign began to speak on behalf of the British Government. And thirty-six hours seemed short enough. I had no illusions on the matter. The chances of Government action were remote, even though Fisher and Sir John Kelf used every endeavour to obtain at least the detention of the Thirlmere and an inquiry. The Government had given their blessing to this enterprise. And Marburg and his friends could pull strings. What, against these weighty considerations, was the fantastic statement of a K.C., however famous, who had first been reported dead and who, though now miraculously come to life, had nevertheless sent a ridiculous statement to the Yard only two days ago.

It was in a state of utter depression that, at the end of the ceremony, I wandered aft with the rest of the gathering. The captain, at the close of the affair, had given everyone the freedom of the decks, but had announced in broken English that, in view of the fact that this was a munitions ship, he had orders to allow no one below decks.

I found myself examining the powerful winch gear with a little sharp-featured man. His restless eyes met mine. ‘You press?’ he asked. I nodded. ‘What do you think of this for a bloody silly business? Every editor in the Street is yelling his head off for pro-Finnish stuff. And now when a story with a big British angle breaks, everything is frightfully hush-hush. “MacPherson,” my news editor says to me, “there’s a grand story here.” Grand story be damned! A lot of pious publicity-seeking drivel from Marburg. A lot more drivel from your Finn. And we’re not allowed below decks. How the hell do they expect one to get a good background story? I want to see for myself what they’ve got.’

I did not think he was being reasonable and said so. ‘You can’t expect them to allow a crowd like this to wander all over the ship. But Marburg knows the value of publicity. If several of us applied to him tomorrow for permission to look round, I expect we’d get it.’

At that he gave a short laugh. ‘What the devil’s the good of a permit tomorrow, when the ship sails tonight?’

We were walking round the stern of the ship and I checked in my stride. ‘Sailing tonight?’ I asked.

‘Yes. Can’t you see they’ve got steam up? All they’re waiting for is the torpedo boat. I happen to understand Norwegian and I heard the captain discussing the sailing with his mate. They leave with the ebb.’

I felt a sudden void in my stomach. Why the change of plan? The answer seemed plain enough, but it brought me little joy. Things might not be going too well for them. In the circumstances they might well consider that my escape made it essential to get under way as soon as possible. But because they advanced their sailing date by twenty-four hours, it did not mean that Government action was imminent. In less than six hours the tide would be on the ebb and the Thirlmere would be outward bound. Within a little more than twenty hours the ship would reach Germany. I could not believe that Fisher and Keif would get Government action on a Sunday evening. And by dawn tomorrow the Thirlmere would be pounding her way towards Norwegian territorial waters. By midday she would be shot of her naval escort. The void in my stomach was caused by the knowledge that if I wanted action I should have to provide it myself. I had a vivid picture of myself standing over the hold with a hand-grenade in my hand, threatening to toss it amongst the cargo of high explosives, and I was wondering whether I should ever be able to summon up the courage to drop it if my bluff were called.

My companion had been talking and I suddenly caught the drift of his conversation. ‘There she is coming up the river now,’ he was saying. ‘Perhaps we’ll see something interesting after all. It’s the first time old Petersen has shipped a boat on board one of his ships. Have you ever seen them loading up with locomotives?’ I shook my head. We had climbed the iron ladder to the poop and I was peering past one of the lifeboats to see the sharp bows of a torpedo boat creaming the water brown as she ran smoothly up the centre of the river. ‘It’s an extraordinary sight,’ he went on. ‘The whole ship cants as the winch gear swings it on board. They shove the locomotives down in the hold. It’s specially constructed for that purpose. Then for the rolling stock, rails are run lengthways across the whole of this well deck and the carriages or trucks are lashed to its rails. By Jove! There’s someone going down into the hold. There, just below the bridge. See that little iron trapdoor?’ I was just in time to see the head and shoulders of one of the crew disappearing below the level of the brief fo’c’sle deck.

At the time I took little notice of this incident, for the torpedo boat was rapidly approaching the Thirlmere and it was there my interest lay. The crowd, which had already thinned — out, was lining the bulwarks of the well deck, peering down the river. The torpedo boat came up fast with the tide, swung in a wide circle and nosed up alongside the Thirlmere, the propeller creaming the water at her stern as she maintained way against the flow of the tide. Ropes were flung and she was made fast. The engine quietly running had a familiar sound, and I remembered the white-painted Sea Spray chugging out from Porthgwarra. It seemed incredible to think that this was the same engine. In place of the white friendly lines of Sea Spray was the dull grey menacing hull of this small warship. Over the pointed bows showed the muzzle of a small gun, and on either side of the short mast were multiple anti-aircraft pom-poms. Astern was the depth charge apparatus, and doubtless below the level of the water would be a torpedo tube.

In appearance, the boat was a warship. And as I stood there in the cold sunlight I had a feeling of admiration for the men who had planned this method of removing a secret diesel engine from the country. Looking at that devilish little craft, bristling with armaments, no one would give any attention to its engine. The boat was a Calboyd product and would, of course, be fitted with a Calboyd Dragon engine. Who was there to realise that that engine spelt disaster for one or other of two warring nations! Well, there was myself. And I was helpless. Should I stand up here on the poop and tell the press that installed in that boat was an engine that revolutionised aero engine production? Should I tell them that the Thirlmere was not bound for Finland at all, but for Germany, and that the volunteers were in reality Nazi agents? I could just imagine the laughter that would greet this denunciation, and the good-humoured comments as those same agents marched me ashore. Or there might be angry cries as the crowd denounced me for a communist. No, it was useless. I should achieve nothing that way. The stage had been too well set. Denunciations would only recoil upon the head of the denunciator.

Sailors had now climbed on to the poop and with a clatter the steam winches came to life. Slowly the great steel girder used for lifting locomotives and rolling stock was swung clear of the deck. Cloth-bound rope slings were attached to each end and the girder was swung out over the side of the Thirlmere and lowered until it was only a few feet above the boat, whose mast had been lowered.

For a time I became absorbed in the efforts of the crew of the boat to get the slings into position beneath the keel. I think it was the sound of a camera that made me turn. Almost directly behind me, one of the news-cameramen was taking shots of the man operating the steam winch. He was squatting on his heels, his broad back bent over his camera, which was lodged on a bollard. I was just turning away to see how the men on board the torpedo boat had progressed with their task, when he rose to his feet. Something about his figure made me hesitate. Then, as he picked up his camera and turned to find a new vantage point, I knew who he was.

‘David!’ I exclaimed.

He started and then stared at me as though I were a ghost. For a moment both of us were too surprised to speak. ‘Good God!’ he said. ‘It really is you, isn’t it?’

‘It certainly is,’ I replied. ‘What are you doing here? And what’s the news, David? Where’s Freya? There’s a whole heap of questions I want to ask you.’

‘And there’s a whole heap I want to ask you,’ he said. His eyes glanced furtively in the direction of the bridge. ‘I’m going to take a few shots from the stern,’ he added, bending to adjust the mechanism of his camera. ‘If the coast is clear, drop down and have a few words in a minute. They’re keeping an eye on me.’

I turned back and resumed my interest in the settling of the slings under the torpedo boat. They had managed to get the for’ard sling in position now. But I barely took in the scene below. My whole mind was concentrated on the fact of David’s presence. I heard him climb down the ladder on to the after deck. I glanced towards the bridge and caught my breath. Sedel was standing on the fo’c’sle. He was by himself and he seemed to be staring straight at me. I looked down again at the figures moving in the boat below. Had Sedel seen us talking? Was David really a suspect, and if so, why was the fool on board the Thirlmere at all? These and many other questions raced through my mind, and I was conscious all the time of my companion’s curiosity. But he had the self-control not to ask questions.

A seaman on the after deck suddenly raised his hand and the steam winches broke into clattering activity. The torpedo boat, now slung firmly below the girder, rose slowly from the water. Soon its decks were level with the poop on which we were standing and I could see its keel, with the water dripping from it. I glanced for’ard. Sedel had disappeared. Everyone’s attention seemed riveted on the torpedo boat. I climbed down on to the after deck and joined David, who was taking shots of the boat’s stern as it rose above the deck level.

He did not pause in his work or look up. ‘Thank God you’re all right, Andrew,’ he said. ‘When I saw that story in the evening papers yesterday I thought they must have got you.’

‘So they did,’ I said. ‘But I escaped.’

‘Well, they’re after me, too,’ he said. ‘That’s why you mustn’t be seen talking to me. I’ve been under observation ever since I came on board.’

‘Then why the devil did you come?’

‘I wanted to find out what had happened to Freya. And I’m going to find out before I leave this ship, if I have to break every bone in Marburg’s great carcass.’

‘Freya,’ I cried, with a sudden horrible fear. ‘They haven’t got Freya, have they?’

‘Afraid so,’ he said laconically.

I was on the point of cursing him. But he seemed to sense my condemnation, for he said, ‘I’m sorry, Andrew. I ought to have been more careful. I think they trailed me down from Calboyds. I arrived back at Guildford Street about nine yesterday morning with a pretty hot story, to find Freya in a terrible state of emotional turmoil. You were missing, and she had discovered her father was still alive. There had been a message for Olwyn in the personal column of the Daily Telegraph that morning. He had suggested a meeting place in Billingsgate, of all places, and we had just time to make the appointment. Yes, it was genuine, all right. I’ve never seen two people so overjoyed at seeing each other again. Freya told the old boy about your disappearance. He was very upset. He gave us the low-down on the whole thing then. Do you realise who is behind this business, Andrew?’

‘For goodness’ sake come to the point, David,’ I said. ‘What’s happened to Freya?’

‘But this is the point, old boy. The man behind this business is Baron Marburg, the banker.’

‘I know that,’ I said, losing my patience. ‘This munitions for Finland story is a ramp and there, in that boat, is Schmidt’s precious engine. But what’s happened to Freya?’

‘I’m sorry, Andrew.’ He was apologetic. ‘I don’t know. We left old Schmidt in Fish Street shortly after eleven yesterday morning. I left Freya to pick up an “18” bus and took the District to Westminster. That’s the last I saw of her. She never reached Guildford Street.’

‘And you went to see your godfather?’

‘Correct. And the old boy listened open-mouthed.’

‘And pigeon-holed your story as soon as the door was closed?’

David hesitated. ‘No, I don’t think so. He certainly didn’t believe me when I brought Marburg’s name into it. Schmidt could give no very convincing evidence. But I think he believed what I told him about Calboyds and about the stealing of the engine, and I fancy he’ll try to do something. But I’m afraid he found my accusations about the Thirlmere business as difficult to swallow as those about Marburg.’

‘But you don’t think anything will be done in time?’ I said.

‘Afraid not. At best they’ll be slow to reach a decision. But the other side is getting rattled. They’ve advanced the sailing schedule by twenty-four hours, and Marburg himself has suddenly decided to sail with the ship.’

‘And you come galloping like Saint George right into the dragon’s mouth,’ I said. ‘Man, what dam’-fool game are you playing? Are you aiming to try and blow the ship up, or what?’

‘No — to rescue Freya,’ was the reply.

My heart leapt. ‘Is she on board?’

‘Yes, she was brought on board in a tank in the early hours of the morning.’

‘In a tank!’ I exploded. ‘Why in a tank?’

‘Well, it’s unobtrusive, isn’t it? One of the tanks was driven on board by a volunteer and she was inside it.’

‘But how do you know?’

‘Her father told me. He’s got a berth as something in the galley. Knows a Jewish export firm that has a pull with the captain. That’s an incredible little man, Andrew. He looks so shabby and nondescript, until you meet his eyes. Where do you think he went to earth? At the Calboyd Power Boat yard at Tilbury. Got a job as a fitter.’

‘But why didn’t he come and see me on the Monday?’ I asked.

‘The chase was getting too hot. He had no more information to give you, and he thought that if he disappeared, you’d be more inclined to treat the matter seriously and do what you could. He didn’t know, of course, that most of the information had been pinched from us. Another thing, he thought that sooner or later the Sea Spray would be discovered at Porthgwarra, and he guessed they’d bring it up to the Calboyd works. When that happened, he wanted to be on the spot, in order either to destroy it, or get it away. Do you know he nearly succeeded? The night after it arrived, he started a fire in a corner of the works. The police guard on the Sea Spray came ashore and he went aboard. As soon as he had started down the river, Sedel’s men were after him in a power boat. Unfortunately, he knew nothing about the special valve Freya had put in, and he couldn’t open the engine out. He hadn’t a chance, so he ran her full tilt into a pier and sank her. He only just managed …’ David’s eyes suddenly became riveted on the far side of the poop. ‘We’re being watched,’ he whispered.

I glanced round. One of the volunteers was coming down on to the after deck. I became interested in the lowering of the torpedo boat amidships and climbed back over the poop. David had given me plenty to think about. And the focus of all my thoughts was Freya. Why had she been captured? And why had she been brought aboard the Thirlmere? Did they want her as a hostage? Or — and then I knew the reason. She was the bait. They were taking his engine to Germany. But what was the good of that if the man who knew the formula of the special alloy and who had designed it was still in England? Not only had they got Schmidt on board, whether they knew it or not, but they had got the only other two people who could really testify that an engine of outstanding performance had passed into German hands. I paused in the midst of clambering over the maze of winch machinery. My journalist friend was no longer standing against the deck rail of the poop. And down on the well deck the crowd was gathered about the torpedo boat which was being lowered on to its cradle. I was just on the point of descending to the well deck, when I heard a dull thud behind me from the after deck. Almost simultaneously there was a low cry, and this was followed by the sound of metal striking metal. I was very close to the deck rail here and instinctively I leaned over the side, thinking someone might have fallen overboard. I was just in time to see what looked like a square bright lump of metal fall into the water with a splash. The ripples were already beginning to fade before I realised that what I had seen fall into the water was a news-camera.

In an instant I had leapt across the huddle of machinery and was staring down at an empty after deck.

David was nowhere to be seen. I had no illusions as to what had happened. I remembered the volunteer who had been hovering on the starboard side of the fo’c’sle. Doubtless he had been waiting his chance.

Then I became conscious of shouts from the neighbouring dock, and I could have laughed. The agent had bided his time and when David had actually been knocked out, there had been no one on the after deck and the man had doubtless thought, with some reason, that anyone overlooking the ship from the other side of the Thames would not notice the blow even if they did see a man collapse. But he had forgotten Alf Higgins sitting quietly with his missis on the Percivale Banana Wharf. The old man had advanced to the barrier dividing the two docks and was calling for the police and yelling at the top of his voice that a man had been assaulted on the after deck.

Not desiring to be picked out as a possible witness, I turned and climbed down to the well deck, where I mingled with the crowd, which was now lining the starboard bulwarks and peering down at the wharf. A few minutes later Alf Higgins was brought on board by two policemen. The captain was summoned and he went aft to make inquiries. In a minute he was back again to say that it was quite correct, one of the cameramen had fainted. ‘He is in the fo’c’sle,’ he told the police. ‘The ship’s doctor, he is attending to him.’

This, however, did not content Alf Higgins, who swore that he had seen the man struck by one of the crew. Whereupon, one of the policemen, a sergeant, went aft to investigate. A few minutes later he returned to announce that he had seen the gent and that he was suffering from a slight stroke. When the old man insisted that he had seen the fellow assaulted, the policemen gently took him by the arms and marched him down the gangway, the sergeant suggesting that he had been on the booze.

‘It was Shiel, wasn’t it?’ said a voice at my elbow.

I started, and turned to find the journalist, MacPherson, just behind me. ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘How did you know?’

‘He used to do a certain amount of photographic work for the Globe,’ was the reply. Then the fellow added, ‘Seems funny that he should have a stroke. I shouldn’t have thought Shiel was the sort of man to suffer from strokes.’

‘He isn’t,’ I said. ‘He was knocked out by one of these volunteers.’

‘But what the hell for?’

‘Ah,’ I said. ‘If I told you, I don’t think you’d believe me.’

‘You could try me,’ he suggested with a grin.

‘I will, on one condition,’ I said.

‘What’s that?’

‘That you go straight from here to Sir Geoffrey Carr of the Home Office. David Shiel is his godson. Explain what has happened and tell him that David is a prisoner on board the Thirlmere. Only if you’re to do any good you must run Carr to earth within three hours — that is before the ship sails. Will you do that?’

‘Yes, I’ll do that. Now what’s the story that I won’t believe if told?’

I hesitated, wondering how he would take it. I had no desire to make him incredulous. If he found Carr before the Thirlmere sailed it was just possible that the ship might be delayed whilst the police searched it. ‘This ship isn’t going to Finland,’ I said. ‘As soon as it is in Norwegian territorial waters and no longer has a British naval escort watching over it, the volunteers will take control and the ship will alter course for Germany.’

MacPherson was staring at me. ‘But why?’ he demanded.

‘Because the volunteers are all Nazis. Because that fellow Sedel is a Nazi. Because Marburg himself is a Nazi. But above all, because inside that torpedo boat is not a Calboyd Dragon engine, but an engine made of a new alloy which is being spirited out of this country to Germany.’

‘It’s fantastic,’ he said.

I laughed. I must have sounded a trifle bitter. ‘I told you you wouldn’t believe me,’ I said.

He looked straight at me for a moment, his eyes meeting and holding mine. Suddenly he said, ‘On the contrary I do believe you. The whole thing is much too fantastic not to be true. Can I have any more details?’

‘Well, I don’t know,’ I said, suddenly remembering that the Globe was the Record’s great rival. ‘You see, I’ve been working on the matter for Fisher of the Record. I think I’ve said enough. I’ll give you a tip, though. The Record will be running this tomorrow. I’ve told you what I have because my desire for Government action to prevent this ship reaching Germany comes before my desire to get a scoop for the Record.’

‘Okay, pal. Thanks for the tip. And I’ll see that Carr hears about David Shiel.’

I watched him disappear down the gangway with a feeling that at least I was maintaining the initiative. That pleased me, for in other respects the outlook was grim enough. The crowd was beginning to drift away now that there was nothing of interest to hold them. I hesitated. If I remained on board much longer I should become conspicuous. On the other hand, once I passed out through the gates of the wharf, I should never get back to the Thirlmere unless it was with a squad of police and a search warrant. And there was David unconscious in the poop and Freya somewhere else on board. I could not just walk off the ship and leave them to their fate. It wasn’t as though I could do anything, either in Whitehall or at the Yard. I had to leave that to Fisher and Keif in any case.

It did not take me long to make up my mind. I must maintain the initiative and I decided to tackle Marburg. Looking back on it, I cannot imagine what I expected to achieve. I had not prepared my brief. I was going to face him and leave it to the inspiration of the moment to decide what I was going to say. With this intention, I climbed the iron deck ladder to the fo’c’sle. I then crossed to the port side, which seemed the easiest approach to the bridge. In doing so I passed the trapdoor leading to the hold. It was open, a small square hole in the deck plates, with barely room for a man to squeeze through. A rifle stood against the superstructure of the bridge. Presumably one of the volunteers guarding this entrance to the hold had found it necessary to go down. I hesitated, peering down it. All I could see was the top of an iron ladder. The rest was blackness.

I glanced quickly about me. No one appeared to be overlooking the fo’c’sle. Quickly I dropped to the deck and lowered my feet into the opening. A second later they found the rungs of the ladder and I had disappeared below the level of the deck. I paused for a moment, to discover whether my movements had been noticed. But there was no outcry, and I began to clamber quietly down. Somewhere below, no doubt, was the guard. As I clambered down dirty rung after dirty rung, I kept on peering below, expecting to see the light of a torch. But all was dark, and the smell of stale oil was very strong.

Suddenly a light flashed below me. Then the framework of the ladder began to shake as someone began to climb. The guard! My heart leapt to my throat. For a second I was in a panic. The man had only to glance upward to see me in silhouette against the square light of the trapdoor. If I climbed back to the deck, he was sure to see me and I remembered what had happened to David. If I faced him, the odds were about even — he probably had a revolver, but I had the advantage of being uppermost on the ladder. But even if I were able to kick him from his hold before he fired, his absence would be noticed. All these thoughts raced through my mind in an instant, and at the same moment I leant away from the ladder and thrust out my hand. There was wood there, cases by the feel of it. Ammunition cases probably.

At that thought I began to climb quietly upwards, one hand outstretched, feeling the cases. The ship was supposed to be carrying more tanks than those I had seen on the well deck of the wharf. If they were stowed in the hold on top of the ammunition … I had climbed to the height of five cases when suddenly my hand encountered a void. I felt about. There was nothing within reach. I had been right. The hold was not stowed to the deck plates with ammunition boxes. I turned, put my hands on the last of the cases and drew my feet from the ladder.

A second later the guard climbed past where I lay on top of the cases. Then the trapdoor closed with a clang and I was in complete darkness. I felt about me with my hands. The cases presented a level surface running back from the ladder. I rose to my feet, and though I had moved carefully, I nearly brained myself on a piece of jutting metal. For a moment I crouched on my knees, nursing my head in agony. Then I pulled out a small torch I had borrowed from Fisher.

No wonder I had hurt my head. I had struck it on the caterpillar tractors of a large tank. In the pale light of the torch the monstrous machine reared above me to the deckplates. Next to it was another, and beyond that I made out a third. I crawled between them and then rose to my feet. The clumsy-looking monsters were ranged five abreast across the hold and attached by steel hawsers to girders which ran below the deck plates. There were ten of them altogether, and behind them were Spitfires with their wings stacked against the side of the hold.

Freya had been brought aboard in a tank. She might have been left in it. It was the safest place to hide a prisoner. I remembered my own experience of being trussed up in a steel container and made haste to locate her. It took me some time to visit each one, tapping against its steel plates and calling out her name.

When I had contacted every one without result, I came to the conclusion that either she was not there, or else she was bound and gagged so firmly that she could not even tap in reply. Perhaps she was unconscious. At the thought I felt a sudden surge of anger through my veins — not at Marburg, but at Sedel. The man was a fiend, and I could well believe the pleasure it would give him to hurt a woman.

I realised then that if Freya were in one of those tanks, the only way I could discover her was by getting into each one. That was a lengthy job, and before starting on it, I decided to go down the ladder and see what was at the bottom of it. The guard must have had some reason for going down there. As I swung myself on to the ladder, there was a sudden tremendous noise overhead. It grew louder until it was pounding on the deck plates above my head. It continued for a moment and then ceased. It was some moments before I realised what it was. They were bringing tanks from the wharf on board.

I began to descend the ladder just as the next one came on board. The ladder was set in a kind of recess in the bulkhead, so that with the munition cases flush with the bulkhead proper, it descended what was virtually a small square well. At the bottom I found a massive steel door. It required all my strength to slide this back. When at length I got through, I found myself facing more munition cases. Presumably this was No. I hold. There was no ladder here, but a rope hung down the wall of cases that faced me. I glanced up. The cases were stacked to within little more than a foot of the deck plates.

I went back into the main hold and, after closing the bulkhead door, climbed back up the ladder. I felt certain there was no hold aft. The space beyond the after bulkhead would be taken up by the engine-room. There was only one thing to do. I should have to search each of those tanks, and the planes, if necessary.