Horse Under Water

41 It’s moving

Jean met me at Paddington. She was still driving Dawlish’s old Riley.

‘What is it you do to Dawlish, that he lends his pride and joy?’

‘You have a disgusting mind.’ She gave me a girlish smile.

‘No kidding, how do you get him to trust you with it? He sends the doorman out to watch me when I park near it — let alone trust me inside when the wheels are moving.’

‘Well, I’ll tell you,’ said Jean. ‘I compliment him about it. It’s something you’ve never heard about, but among civilized people compliments are all the rage. Try, some day.’

‘My compliments tend to oversteer,’ I told her, ‘and I end up in a ditch backwards.’

‘You should try a touch of brake before changing direction.’

‘You win,’ I said. She always wins.

The Admiralty is next door to the Whitehall Theatre, where they get paid for farce. The policeman spotted Dawlish’s motor and let us pull across Whitehall into the courtyard among the official cars, their smooth black contours heavy with wax and crowded with reflection. Under the porch hung an old lantern, and brasswork was burnished to an illegible sheen. Inside the entrance a vast grate of incandescent coals flickered electric light through its artful plastic embers. A doorman in a braided frock-coat directed me past a life-size Nelson in a red niche who stared down with two blind eyes of stone.

The cinema projector and screen had been set up in one of the upstairs rooms. One of our own people from Charlotte Street was threading it up and opening and closing little boxes of blinding light. There were three senior officers there when we arrived, and we all shook hands after a sailor on the door was persuaded to allow us in.

The first minutes were hilarious. There was this boy Victor from the Swiss section, dressed up in long shorts with the elastic of his underpants grappling with his belly. But the serious stuff was well done. An old black Ford threaded its way over the uneven Portuguese cobblestones, stopped, and an old gentleman climbed out. The tall thin figure walked up a flight of steps and disappeared into the black maw of a church portal.

Another shot, same man, medium close-up moving across camera. He turned towards the camera. The gold spectacles glinted in the sun. Our photographer had probably complained that he was blocking the view, for da Cunha walked a little more quickly out of the frame. There were fifteen minutes of film of da Cunha. He was the same imperious gaunt figure that had given me a brown-paper parcel on a night that seemed so long ago. Without warning the screen flashed white and the film spool sang a note of release.

The three naval men got to their feet, but Jean asked them to stay a moment longer to see something else. A still picture flashed on the screen. It was an old creased snapshot. A group of army and naval officers were sitting, arms folded and heads erect. Jean said, ‘This photograph was taken at Portsmouth in 1938. Commander Andrews sorted it out for us.’ I nodded to Commander Andrews across the darkened room. Jean went on, ‘Commander Andrews is third from the left, front row. At the end of the front row there is a German naval officer — Lieutenant Knobel.’

‘Yes,’ I said.

The operator changed the slide. It was a part of the same picture enlarged, a big close-up of the young German sailor’s face. The projector-operator went to the screen with an ink marker. He drew spectacles on Lieutenant Knobel. The picture was very light in tone and now he drew in a new hairline on the plastic screen. He drew a darkened eye-socket.

‘O.K.,’ I said. It was da Cunha as a young man.