The Trojan Horse

CHAPTER EIGHT

When I hauled myself up on to that wharf I was met by the full force of a bitter east wind. My skin was blue and I was shivering from cold and exhaustion. That wind seemed to blow right through my sodden clothes direct on to my naked flesh. I looked around me. Behind, across a huddle of cranes and masts and funnels, I saw the misty outline of Tower Bridge. Ahead stretched the river, bending away to the Lower Pool, the brown waters flecked with little tufts of white as the wind whipped chilly at the wave caps. The wharf was deserted.

Wretched with cold, I crossed the uneven planks, leaving a trail of water behind me. At the back of the wharf rose the grimy mass of the warehouse. The air was full of the smell of malt and cinnamon and sacks; a queer, musty, but exciting conglomeration of scents. The entrances to the warehouse were barred with worn wooden doors. The place looked like some old barracks. But between it and the next warehouse were steps leading up from the river. By climbing down over some old barrels, I reached these steps. They led up to a narrow street lined with warehouses on the river side. On the other side, the buildings were much lower, mainly shops and lodging houses. During working hours it would be fantastically congested with lorries and carts, but now it was quiet and practically deserted. A dirty cast-iron street sign told me that this was Wapping High Street. Anything less like a high street I have never seen. But I found a little eating place called Alf’s Dining Rooms and went in. There was no one there. But at the tinkle of a door bell an old woman came out from the back quarters. When she saw me, she stopped and stared, her mouth agape. I am not surprised. I must have presented a sorry spectacle, standing there, the water dripping from my clothes, which stank ruthlessly in the warmth of that eating-house.

My teeth chattering, I explained to her that I had fallen into the river. I was too dulled by cold and fatigue to tell her my wants. I did not even tell her that I had any money. ‘It’s a cold day for falling in the river,’ was all she said, and led me through into the kitchen at the back. She shooed a big full-bosomed girl from her pastry-making and sent her upstairs for blankets. Then she told me to strip. I was too far gone to feel any sense of discomfort at her presence. In front of the blazing range I stood and towelled myself down. The warmth and the friction soon restored my circulation.

In the midst of this an old man dressed in a seaman’s cap and jersey came in. He stopped at the sight of me, standing nude before the fire. Then he took the pipe out of his mouth and spat in the coal bucket. ‘’Ullo, ma,’ he said. ‘See yer’ve got company, like.’

I hastened to explain. But he held up his hand. ‘Now why bother to explain,’ he said. ‘Nobody explains things around ’ere, see. They just ’appens. You fell in the river. Orl right. But what I says is the river ’as acquired a fruitier scent than when I last smelt it. So you keep yer explanations to them as wants ’em, me lad.’

There was nothing I could say to that. If I told him the truth, he would never believe me. And if I made up a lie, he wouldn’t believe that either. We just left it at that. I wrapped myself in the blankets that the girl had brought down and, sitting like an Indian in front of the fire, I ran through my sodden garments, removing anything of value that remained in the pockets. Fortunately my wallet was still there. In it were three wet pound notes. And I found two half-crowns and several coppers in the pocket of my trousers.

I looked across at the old man, who had sat himself down on a chair. ‘Have you got any clothes you’d be willing to sell me?’ I asked. I pointed to the pound notes in the wallet. ‘I expect they’ll dry all right, won’t they?’

‘Blimey!’ he said. ‘Where did yer get those?’ Then he picked himself up. ‘Orl right, me lad. Never mind where they comes from. They’ll dry out orl right. But if it’s orl the same to you, I’ll take those two halfcrowns. And in exchange you can ’ave a pair of my old trousers and a sweater.’

He disappeared upstairs. The old woman came and picked up my clothes. ‘You’d better throw those away,’ I said. ‘They’re in a filthy state.’

I saw her gnarled hands fingering the cloth. ‘Throw them away!’ she said. ‘Not likely I won’t. It’ll all come out in the wash. I can see you ’aven’t ’ad anything to do with children.’

And with that, she disappeared with the clothes, leaving me alone with the girl, who had returned to her pastry. I had been conscious of her eyes on me ever since she had returned to find me standing in front of the fire with nothing but a towel round me. ‘You do look funny in that blanket,’ was her opening line.

It was not the best she could have chosen, for I was already conscious enough of my appearance. I looked at her. Her figure was big and clumsy, and she had dark rather sullen features. Beneath her tousled hair was a rather fine pair of brown eyes. She was smiling at me. ‘Tell me wot reely ’appened,’ she said. ‘Did yer get much?’

At that I laughed. ‘Nothing, I’m afraid,’ I said. ‘You see, I raided a big City Bank, and they caught me and shoved me in the vaults. But I broke out into a sewer. I’ve been chased all day through the sewers by four big men in top hats. They all had beards, too,’ I added as an afterthought.

‘Ooh, I don’t believe yer. Yer teasing.’ And she laughed, a husky, rich sound. ‘’Ere, that blanket’s slippin’ orf yer. Wait a minute. I’ll tuck yer up.’

But, as she was wiping the flour off her hands, the old woman came back and she returned sullenly to her pastry. I was not sorry, for a great lethargy was stealing over me, and I was not in the mood to cope with such a wench. A few minutes later the old man came down with trousers, a tattered old vest, a thick blue woollen jersey and a pair of socks carefully darned. He watched over me as I put them on. The jersey was a little on the high side, but who was I to complain, having come straight from the sewers?

The problem of footwear still remained. But the old man, who, now I was clad in his cast-offs, seemed to take a fatherly interest in me, said he knew of a good second-hand clothes dealer in Wapping High. So, a little later, when the notes in my wallet had dried, I entrusted him with one to go and buy me a pair of shoes, size nine, and some sort of a coat. I told him to see to it that there was enough left over to buy himself some tobacco. But I had to assure him repeatedly that the note was genuine before he would agree to run the errand. In the meantime I had a wash and a meal of cold meat and bread and pickles. With it I was given some of the strongest tea I have ever tasted from a big black pot on the hob. It was bitter with tannin, yet I drank three cups, and liked it.

When the old man returned, he brought with him a pair of black boots, ex-service, I guessed, and a tattered old coat of dark-blue serge. He evidently noticed my surprise when he proffered me boots instead of shoes, for he said, ‘Boots is what you’d be wearing in them clothes. Besides, they were reel cheap — only five bob the pair. And you was quite correct — them notes was orl right.’

I was loath to leave the warmth of the fire. But I had much to do. So I thanked them for their kindness and went out into Wapping High Street. My immediate need was a call box. I made my way west along the narrow street. It was still practically deserted, the gaunt grimy faces of the warehouse barred and lifeless. Only round the pubs was there any sign of life. I crossed the bridge over the Hermitage entrance to London Docks and, skirting the blank castlelike walls of St Katherine Docks, I made my way to Tower Hill, where I found a call box. I was thankful to go inside and shut the door. My tattered coat and woollen jersey seemed no protection against the biting wind, and I was deathly tired. I lifted the receiver, inserted two pennies and dialled Whitehall 1212. I was put straight through to Crisham.

‘Is that you, Kilmartin?’ His voice was terse and I was surprised at his use of my surname.

‘Listen, Desmond,’ I said, ‘do you know who controls Calboyds? Is it Baron Marburg?’

‘Well, what of it?’ he demanded. ‘I suppose he has been over-quoting for the sale of diesel engines to the Government?’

‘So they’ve sent you that statement accusing Terstall of over-quoting for gun turrets, have they?’ I asked.

‘Yes. Who signed that statement?’

‘I did,’ I said. ‘But I was forced to. Their idea was to make me sign a number of absurd statements, so that when, after my death, you were handed my original statement, which dealt with Calboyds, you wouldn’t believe a word of it.’

‘Look here,’ he said, ‘did you ring me up yesterday?’

‘Yes, of course I did. Why?’

‘And on the previous day?’

‘Yes — why?’

‘You said you were coming along to see me yesterday.’

‘Yes, but I couldn’t. I went straight from that call box to the Wendover Hotel. I wanted to frighten Cappock — he’s one of the big Calboyd shareholders — into an admission. But they were waiting for me there. They packed me up in a deed-box and took me along to Marburg’s Bank in Threadneedle Street.’

‘Who is they?’

‘Max Sedel for one. He’s the fellow at whose house John Burston is supposed to have got drunk enough to drive himself over the cliffs at Beachy Head. Actually he was murdered by Sedel. Sedel, for your information, is a Nazi agent.’

‘You’d better come along to the Yard and have a talk with me,’ Crisham suggested.

‘That’s what I want to do,’ I said. ‘But I want you to know what the position is first, just in case I don’t reach the Yard. I escaped from the vaults of Marburg’s by way of the sewers. I’ve been all day getting out of them with the pack at my heels. I tell you, Desmond, this Marburg business is the biggest thing that has happened in this war, so far. Do you know what Baron Marburg is? He’s Führer-designate of Britain. And if Germany gets that engine that your police were fool enough to let out of their grasp, it’s goodbye to air supremacy with Calboyds making obsolete diesel engines for the Government.’

‘Just what are you talking about?’ His voice sounded exasperated. Then a moment later it was suddenly conciliatory. ‘Look here, old man, you’d better tell me the whole thing from the beginning.’

He had never addressed me as ‘old man’ before. I was puzzled. I knew the man well enough to know that it was a mode of address he only used when wheedling a suspect. ‘You’ve got the guts of it,’ I said. ‘I’m coming up to the Yard right away to talk to you. And don’t breathe a word of this to anyone until I’ve seen you.’

‘Wait a minute,’ he said. ‘I’ve got to dash out almost immediately. Just let me have the story from the beginning.’

‘What the devil has got into you?’ I said. ‘Can’t you understand the importance of what I’m telling you? You stay right where you are till I get there.’

‘Stop!’ he said. ‘They might get you on the way. I’ll have a squad car sent round for you.’

I think it was that mention of a squad car that touched some sixth sense in my brain. Then reason took up the argument of instinct. One minute he had not seemed to understand what I was talking about and the next he was offering me a squad car for protection. One minute he had been terse, and the next conciliatory. I replaced the receiver and left the call box. As I crossed the road towards the Mint, I saw steam rising from a man-hole cover in the roadway. It was the ventilation shaft of a sewer smoking in the raw air. Involuntarily I shuddered. But a few hours ago I had been in those sewers. Perhaps I had passed along beneath Royal Mint Street itself.

I had barely reached the other side of the road, when I saw a big black roadster coming fast down Tower Bridge approach, weaving its way in and out of traffic. It drew up by the kerb opposite the call box and three policemen jumped out. I was on the point of crossing the road to it, thinking that Crisham had been as good as his word and sent a car along to take me to the Yard, when I realised that three policemen were not necessary to invite the friend of an inspector along to Scotland Yard. Anyway, it had not come from the direction of the Yard. And there was no mistaking the manner in which they closed in on that call box. They were there to make an arrest.

It was with a horrible sinking sensation in my stomach that I mingled with the crowd on the pavement. The purposefulness of those policemen could mean only one thing. The other side had got in first. They had smirched my reputation so successfully that even Crisham, whom I regarded as a friend, believed them. I think, perhaps, if I had been feeling fresh, I should have jumped into a taxi and driven straight to the Yard. I don’t know. It is difficult to tell what one would do in any particular instance had the circumstances been slightly different.

My mood was definitely a defeatist one. I was frightened of the power I was up against. Perhaps I exaggerated that power. At least, I was afraid at that time that I might not be able to convince even Crisham of my sincerity. It was asking a good deal of a policeman to expect him to believe that a man of Marburg’s standing was a Nazi. Policemen have too great a sense of propriety readily to accept accusations of treason against well-known banking figures. They stand for the status quo, and I knew that even if I were not suspect, I should find it well-nigh impossible to convince Crisham of the truth.

It was in a state of complete frustration that I walked towards the Minories. I felt impotent against this power that was able to range the police, as well as its own agents, against me. I was puzzled to know how they managed it. Then I saw the placard. FAMOUS K.C.’S DEATH RIDDLE. I stopped. I knew, instinctively, that here was the answer. I bought a copy of the Record.

There it was in a banner head right across the front page. MYSTERY OF FAMOUS K.C. — ANDREW KILMARTIN KILLED IN CAR SMASH — IMPOSTER RINGS UP YARD. That final head explained Crisham’s attitude and the arrival of the squad car so clearly. I glanced quickly through the story. Apparently the wreckage of a car had been discovered at a lonely part of the coast near Bude called Strangler’s Beach. The car had been hired at Launceston late on Thursday and had been discovered by a shepherd on the Friday at the foot of a four-hundred-foot cliff. The body had been identified that morning as mine.

The subtlety of it was terrifying. As the story pointed out, I had left my rooms in the Temple on Tuesday for a short holiday in the West Country. My normal haunts had not seen me since. And then at the bottom of the page was a cross head — MYSTERY OF YARD PHONE CALLS. Doubtless Sedel, with his knowledge of Fleet Street, had provided that part of the story.

It had all been planned prior to their picking me up at the Wendover. But even now that I had escaped, their plans stood them in good stead. I dared not go to the police, for by the time I had proved my identity, the engine might have left the country. And even if I went straight to Crisham or to the Chief Commissioner, whom I knew slightly, and showed them, by my knowledge of what had passed at certain private conversations I had had with them, that I was not an imposter, would they believe what I had to say about Marburg, or even what I could tell them about Calboyds? They might believe my story of the sewers, but for the rest, they would shake their heads and say that the experience had upset me and that what I needed was a rest. That statement I had signed the previous night had done its work. The suggestion of mental derangement had been sown. And that seed would still be there, even when Crisham knew that it was not an imposter who had phoned him. Whatever I did, I faced a blank wall, because of the time factor. According to Sedel, the engine was due to leave in three days’ time now. That meant Monday. Two days in which first to prove my identity and then to prove that one of the biggest banking figures in the country was a Nazi.

The impossibility of it swept over me, and suddenly I knew how deadly tired I was. I peered back across the cobbled roadway. The police car was still there and behind it loomed the grey, imposing bulk of the Tower. Presumably they were making inquiries. I turned at right angles and hurried down Royal Mint Street. Exhaustion made that hunted sensation strong in me, and almost in a daze I made my way back, through the squalid streets that skirt the docks, to Alf’s Dining Rooms. I had no plan. All I knew was that I must get some rest. They had thought me a criminal and had helped me. I felt I should be safe with them.

It was half-past six when I dragged myself wearily into the eating-house. It was almost dark. One or two customers were seated at the tables, eating. They glanced up at my entrance, but without curiosity. I saw them in a kind of haze. I was suddenly very near collapse. The girl, with her hair tidied and a clean apron, was serving. I went through into the kitchen. Neither the old man nor his wife showed any sign of surprise at my return. And when I asked if they had a room to spare, where I could rest the night, the old woman took me upstairs to a little room with an iron bedstead and a lace-trimmed window that looked out across a huddle of chimney pots to the river. She placed a board of three-ply over the window before switching on the light.

I don’t remember taking off my clothes or removing the board from the window. All I remember is the momentary joy of the cold sheets against my tired body and the restfulness of a bed.

And then daylight was flooding in through the window and there was the sound of movement in the house. I climbed out of bed. The events of the previous day seemed like a nightmare. But the stiffness of my joints bore witness to their reality. And then I saw the sun was high over the river and I looked at my watch. It was eleven-thirty. I remembered then how much I had to do.

I washed myself quickly in cold water and hurried into my clothes. Down in the kitchen I found the old woman just beginning the day’s cooking. It was Sunday and the joint was standing floured upon the table. Her husband was sitting by the fire, his feet in a pair of old carpet slippers and a dirty clay pipe in his mouth. He was reading the News of the Globe. He looked up as I came in, peering at me over the top of a pair of steel-rimmed spectacles. But he made no comment, so I said, ‘You should have woken me up.’

But the old woman smiled and shook her head. ‘A nice lie in is what yer needed,’ she said.

‘That’s right,’ the old man nodded. ‘A nice lie in. That’s wot I tells the missis.’

The old woman put the joint in the oven and then set about getting my breakfast. And all the time the old man was reading out scraps of news from the paper. I sat by the fire and tried to think out my next move. The events of the past two days seemed strangely remote. But I knew that I had made progress. I had discovered that Max Sedel was a Nazi agent, and that he had a number of agents working under him. I had discovered that he was closely connected with the dummy Calboyd shareholders, who controlled, presumably through the directors nominated by them, the policy of Calboyds. I was reasonably certain that he had murdered one of these shareholders. Above all, I had found out who controlled these dummy shareholders. But had I? I had been so certain about it when in that vault. But now I was not certain. It seemed so utterly fantastic. True, Sedel had not denied it. In fact, he had said, ‘So you know all our little secrets.’ But then he might have been just leading me on. And if I myself were not certain, then how could I expect to convince the authorities. It seemed so absurd that a man like Marburg should be a traitor to the country of his adoption. What had he to gain out of it? I had suggested to myself power. And, as a capitalist, why should the man work for the downfall of England, which was the stronghold of capitalism?

Then my breakfast was brought to me and for a while I forgot my problems in the joys of bacon and eggs. But when I had taken the edge off my appetite, my mind returned to the problem. Now that I was fed, my mind seemed more inclined to deal with realities. I found myself dismissing the problem of Marburg and concentrating on the question of the engine. Marburg could wait. The engine could not. But though I racked my brains till my head ached, I could not see how I was to prevent it from leaving the country. Quite apart from the time I should inevitably waste in convincing some responsible person of my identity, I did not know where the engine was or how they intended to smuggle it out of the country.

And then there occurred one of those incredible strokes of luck that made life so incomprehensible. My mind, browsing over my problems, occasionally caught isolated scraps of the news that the old man was reading out to his wife. And suddenly my mind fastened on the name of Marburg. I looked up from my bread and marmalade. ‘What did you say?’ I asked.

‘Eh?’ The old man looked quite startled, for it was the first word I had uttered since I had been given my breakfast, and I had spoken somewhat peremptorily.

‘What was that bit you were reading out about Marburg?’ I asked.

‘D’yer mean this about the bankers sending a boat-load of munitions to Finland? A feller called Marburg organised it, so the paper says. They’re ’olding a service on board this afternoon. There you are. Read it for yourself.’ And he handed me a page of the paper.

I seized it and spread it out on the table beside my plate. A sudden wild hope made the blood beat in my temples. I found the story. It was headed — BANKER SENDS MUNITIONS TO FINLAND. My eye ran rapidly down the column. The fight for democracy … Moral obligation to help … Service of dedication to be held at 3 p.m. this afternoon on board the Thirlmere, which is lying at the Wilson’s Wren Wharf … Baron Ferdinand Marburg, who raised the fund, will be present at the simple little ceremony. Many bankers and industrialists who subscribed will also be present… Finland’s gratitude for this generous gesture was expressed yesterday by … The precious cargo is valued at close on £100,000.’ Ah, here it was! ‘The cargo consists of 25 of the latest British fighter planes … tanks … hand-grenades … anti-tank guns … and-’ So I had been right! ‘And one of the latest Calboyd naval torpedo craft as supplied to the Royal Navy.’

I sat back in my chair. The audacity of the scheme took my breath away. I could not but feel admiration for the fellow. It was so perfect. Elementary, of course. It was one of the first things I had been taught when I went into the Intelligence over twenty-five years ago. A clever agent always puts himself in the most obvious place. But there are ways and ways of carrying out that fundamental precept. Marburg chose to do it in the grand manner. And for the first time since I left the Wendover Hotel in a deed-box, I felt elated. Sedel I knew for a secret agent who would stop at nothing. To me he was a rat whom I would avoid like the plague. I hate brute force. I always have done. Probably because as a barrister my weapon has always been my brain. Marburg I could understand. He fought with my weapons. And I could have laughed with the sheer excitement of it.

It may seem strange that I no longer had any doubts about Marburg. But that column was like a sign from heaven. The whole thing fitted too well. What a way to take an engine out of the country! Put it in a torpedo boat and ship it out of the country, together with a stack of other munitions for Finland, with the Government’s blessing, a dedication service and — I glanced down the column again. Yes, there it was. ‘The Thirlmere will have a British naval escort as far as Norwegian territorial waters.’ Perfect! And all those lovely munitions, paid for by Britain’s bankers and industrialists — where were they bound for?

In my mind’s eye I saw the British naval escort of two destroyers, perhaps, swing in a wide arc as they turned for home. And the Thirlmere, instead of keeping inside territorial waters, would turn away to the south as soon as they were out of sight. And then over the horizon would come German warships. Not only would Marburg be delivering to Germany an engine that would give her superiority in the air, but with it, as a kind of garnish, a shipload of munitions.

And what the devil was I to do about it? The thought had a dampening effect on my spirits. Somehow the Thirlmere had to be prevented from reaching Germany. But how?

I turned to the old man, who was now reading the history of a divorce case to his wife. ‘I’d like to attend this service,’ I said, interrupting him. ‘But I suppose the wharf will be closed to the public?’

He took off his glasses and peered at me out of his pale blue eyes. ‘Well, wot d’yer think? D’yer expect them to invite every bloody communist in the East End to their little do? Anyway, there’s plenty more places in the world besides Finland. Wot yer want to do — volunteer? Bloody poor look out, if yer ask me. So don’t say Alf ’Iggins didn’t warn yer. Russia’s all right looked at from a distance. But you keep yer distance, me lad. That’s wot I says.’

‘I wasn’t aiming to go to Finland,’ I said. ‘Though, come to think of it, it is an idea. No, I just thought it’d be a pleasant way of spending Sunday afternoon, that’s all.’

‘Wot, listening to a service?’

‘Well, there’d be some interesting people there. And it’s not every day you see a shipload of munitions dedicated to the service of God on the banks of the Thames.’

‘Yer right there. But then money does strange things, me lad. Reckon a banker can get most things dedicated to God if that’s the way ’e wants it.’ Then suddenly he leaned a little forward. ‘Who d’yer want to win — Finland or Russia?’ he demanded.

I looked at him sharply, wondering what he was getting at. ‘I hope the Finns manage to hold out,’ I replied. ‘I don’t expect them to win.’

At that he snorted. ‘So, you’re not a Red. I might have known it. Nobody interesting ever comes round this blasted street — just sailors and petty thieves and fellers who fall in the river.’ This last with a sidelong glance at me. Then he turned to his wife. ‘And I was just beginning to think, Ma, that ’e aimed to blow this ’ere ship up, dedication and all.’

‘Blow her up,’ I said, half to myself. That wasn’t at all a bad idea. She was carrying hand grenades. If I could stow away on board or something and get at those hand grenades. It would be a quick death. ‘Yes,’ I said aloud, ‘I’d like to fight for Finland. I’d like to get on to the Thirlmere.’

‘Then you must be a bleeding fool,’ the old man snapped. ‘D’yer want to go and sign yer death warrant just to get out of the country? God Almighty! Don’t yer know there are ways of lying low?’

‘Oh, I know,’ I said. ‘Still, I’d like a bit of a change and some excitement. Anyway, I’d like to have a look at the Thirlmere while this ceremony is on. I suppose you don’t happen to know of any way I could get on to Wilson’s Wren Wharf?’

‘Wilson’s Wren Wharf, is it?’ He peered at me again. ‘Wot’s it worth to you?’

I hesitated. I had under a pound left. ‘Five bob,’ I said. ‘I’d make it more, only I’m getting a bit short.’

‘That’s orl right. Why should you worry because it’s only five bob. Five bob is five bob, ain’t it. I wouldn’t take yer money, only it means rowing yer across the river, and that’s hard work for a Sunday. Wot d’you say, Ma — shall we go across the river and ’ave a dekko? The missis likes a little trip on the river after the Sunday joint, when it’s a fine day like it is now, don’t ye, Ma?’ The old woman nodded, but said nothing.

‘But how do we get on to the wharf?’ I asked.

‘We don’t,’ was the reply. ‘Wilson’s Wren Wharf is down in the Lower Pool. Next to it is the Percivale Banana Company’s Wharf. It’s closed now, but Bill Fevvers, wot looks after it for ’em, ’e’s a chum of mine.’

I thanked him as he returned to his divorce case. Whilst finishing my bread and marmalade, I read carefully through the Thirlmere story and found one point which seemed important. The Government had recently announced that Britons were to be allowed to volunteer for Finland. Apparently a batch of ten the — first volunteers from Britain — were leaving on the Thirlmere. They were acting as a guard. It occurred to me that if they had been chosen by Marburg, they would prove very useful, presuming that the captain and crew of the Thirlmere were just plain seamen.

And then, as I sat thinking out my first move, I noticed a brief story headed — ARMS WORKS MANAGER MISSING. It was the name Calboyd in the opening sentence that caught my eye. Mr Sefton Raikes, works manager of the Calboyd Diesel Company, had apparently left the works on Thursday evening as usual by car and had not been seen since. A section of the canal had been dragged without success and the whole length of road between the works and his home had been thoroughly searched. Both the car and its owner had simply disappeared. And then followed a significant paragraph. ‘Anxiety is being felt by those who were closely associated with him in his work. It is believed that he was opposed to the policy of the directors. His plans for the production of a special type of diesel engine had been repeatedly overridden by the board. His assistant, Mr West, has told the police that he had been depressed and very worried during the past few weeks.’

Thursday evening! My thoughts had immediately switched to a lonely beach somewhere near Bude, where the wreckage of a car had been found on Friday. It seemed too improbable that there should be any connection. Yet a body, which certainly was not mine, had been found in that car. It had to be someone’s body and if Raikes had been giving trouble, they would be killing two birds with one stone. But that implied that there was something like revolt brewing among the technical staff at Calboyds. I got up in some excitement. ‘Could I have the City page a minute?’ I asked.

The old man, who was now sitting with the paper on his knee, staring into the fire, looked round and then handed me the whole paper. I ran through it quickly and found the page I wanted. I could have shouted for joy, for there, right across the top of the page, was the headline — ARE CALBOYD SHARES TOO HIGH? And below, I read — ‘Calboyds received a sharp jolt on Friday. Throughout the week these shares had been steadily rising to a peak of 52s 6d. On Friday they opened at this figure, but by midday they had reacted Is. By the 3 o’clock close they had slumped to 45s. to the accompaniment of ugly rumours about the prospects of the expected Government contract.’ There followed a discussion of the merits of the shares with information about the expected contract. And then came this sentence: ‘The fall in the shares is being attributed in some quarters to the disappearance of Mr Sefton Raikes, the works manager. It is said that there have been considerable differences between the company’s executive and the board. There are apparently some grounds for this rumour and until the matter has been cleared up, I should advise investors to keep clear of these shares.’

I put the paper down on the table. My mind was made up. The first thing to do was to get hold of David. That wire he had sent from Oldham must have meant something. He may even have talked to Raikes on the eve of his disappearance. If he had discovered something concrete about Calboyds, we might even be able to write up a really hot story about the company. There was Jim Fisher of the Evening Record. I knew him. He’d jump at it, if he thought there was a chance of getting away with it without a big libel suit. I went upstairs and got my old coat. ‘What time will you be ready to go over to the wharf?’ I asked the old man when I returned to the kitchen.

‘Better say ’alf-past two,’ he grunted sleepily. ‘We’ll just catch the tide before she turns.’

‘Right,’ I said. ‘I’ll be back at two-thirty.’ And I hurried through the empty dining-room and out into Wapping High. The sun was shining, but the air was raw, with a cold wind that swept in gusts across the dusty cobbles. I made straight for Tower Hill. Thence down Eastcheap to Cannon Street, where I picked up a bus which took me to Charing Cross. And as I slid through the empty Sunday streets of London with the warm sunshine on my neck, I found myself thinking of Freya and wondering whether she had been worried at my absence. It was a silly thought, but I remembered her lovely face puckered as she smiled at me over her glass on our evening out together, and I thought how nice it would be to have her anxious for me.

At Charing Cross station I felt myself far enough from Wapping to go into a call box. I dialled TER-minus 6795, and almost immediately there was a gabble of barely intelligible English over the wire. I asked for David, but was told that he was not in. I asked for Freya and was told she, too, ‘no home.’ In desperation I asked for Mrs Lawrence. ‘Och, it’s you, is it, Mr Kilmartin? Wherever have ye been? The young lady was fair worrit to death when ye didna come home.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I was — er — unavoidably detained. Are Mr Shiel and Miss Smith both out?’

‘Aye, and I’m worrit aboot them myself. Young Mr Shiel, he got back on Saturday morning at about seven. He’d travelled all night, and he was that excited, Mr Kilmartin. But then he found that you hadn’t come home, and he and the young lady left hurriedly in a taxi. They looked terrible anxious. They didna come back last night and I havena seen them since.’

‘Did they say where they were going?’

‘No. But they were in an awful hurry.’

‘All right. Don’t you worry, Mrs Lawrence. I’ll find them.’ I rang off. For a moment after I had replaced the receiver I just stood there in a daze. I was thinking of Freya, and there was a horrible clutching fear at my heart. It was then that I realised consciously for the first time that I was in love with her. The realisation of it did me good. I had never allowed myself any illusions. I allowed myself none now. When a confirmed bachelor of forty-two finds himself in love with a girl of twenty-six — yes, subconsciously I had even made a note of her age, based on what Schmidt had told me — there is only one thing for him to do, and that is to realise his folly and face up to it. I faced up to it then and the knowledge that I was being a fool cleared my brain.

There could only be one explanation of their failure to return. If trouble were brewing up at Oldham, the probability was that Sedel had men up there. One of them must have recognised David and followed him back to London. What he and Freya had dashed off for in such a hurry, I did not know. Perhaps they had gone to see Crisham? No, that was hardly likely, for it was on a Saturday evening that I had spoken to Crisham over the phone and he had given no indication that he had seen them. But whatever they had been up to, they had not returned to the digs. Either they had discovered they were being followed and had gone somewhere else for the night, or they had been picked up by Sedel’s gang. And of the two possibilities, I feared the latter, for I thought it possible that David might have made straight for his godfather, Sir Geoffrey Carr. Sedel would not like that. I looked up the number in the telephone directory, but when I got through, his butler informed me that Sir Geoffrey was out.

I hesitated. If there were trouble at Calboyds and if David had seen Carr, then things might be coming to a head. But I knew enough about the workings of the official mind to know that, even if David had seen his godfather and had been able to convince him of the seriousness of the situation, there was little likelihood of action being taken before the Thirlmere sailed. In any case, David knew nothing about either Marburg or the Thirlmere. He would not be able to tell them where to find the engine. It was up to me. And I decided upon the bold course. I rang Jim Fisher. At first he was dubious of my identity. But when I repeated in some detail conversations we had had at various times and I had tossed him the bait of a good story, he seemed convinced and agreed to see me.

I must admit that, as I took the bus up Kingsway to Russell Square, I was sorry that Fisher was not the editor of a daily paper. On the other hand, evening paper editors, especially now that the sales had fallen off so badly, are always more inclined to take chances. Anyway, he was the only editor I knew well. He opened the door of his flat to me himself. His small restless eyes took in every detail of my appearance. Then he suddenly grinned and held out his hand. ‘Glad to see you, Andrew,’ he said.

‘So you agree to my identity?’ I said, as I shook his hand.

He gave me a quick glance. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Anyone who was trying to impersonate you wouldn’t be fool enough to come along in that fantastic rigout. Have a whisky? And now let’s hear your story.’

So I let him have it as briefly as possible. When I had finished he looked glum. ‘My God!’ he said morosely. ‘What a story! Man, there’s enough there to provide a splash for every day of the week. If we could use it,’ he added dourly.

‘Good God, Jim!’ I said. ‘At least you can have a crack at Calboyds.’

‘Aye, that’s what young Shiel wanted me to do.’

‘Shiel!’ I cried. ‘Why, he’s the fellow I mentioned, who had gone up to have a look at Calboyds.’

‘Aye. Well, he’s come down with a fine tale. If the blighter had given it to me exclusive, I might have done something about it. But he told me he was giving it to every editor he knew in the Street.’

‘Had he got a girl with him?’ I asked eagerly.

‘No.’ He glanced at me. ‘Why, has he got the Schmidt girl in tow?’

‘Evidently not,’ I said, a trifle sharply. ‘Anyway, what’s his story?’

‘There’s trouble brewing up at the Calboyd works. Apparently the board has been unlucky enough to pick executives who think more of their country than they do of their firm. Anyway, under the leadership of this fellow Raikes, who is missing, they went in a deputation to the directors two weeks ago. Apparently one of them has produced an engine that gives a good deal better performance than the much-vaunted Dragon, which is the one chosen by the Air Ministry for mass production. The deputation pointed out that the Dragon was not the best diesel engine the country could produce. It seems that not only is there this engine, which one of their own number has designed, but they recently tested, without the knowledge of the directors, an engine taken from a new type of German bomber, and found it definitely superior to the Dragon. They suggested that the board should offer the Air Ministry a new and superior engine. The suggestion was refused on the grounds that it would all take time and what they were interested in was getting the contract. Since then Raikes has disappeared and the whole of the technical staff is in a ferment.’

‘Will any of this get into print?’ I asked.

‘Oh, yes, I think so.’ He crossed over to his desk and came back with a telegram. ‘As soon as Shiel had given me his story, I sent one of our men straight off to Oldham. Here’s his initial report.’

He handed me the telegram. It read: INFORMATION OKAY STOP TECHNICAL STAFF MET TODAY THREATEN STRIKE STOP NO NEWS RAIKES STOP FULL STORY FOLLOWING — MELLERS.

‘How many papers will print the story tomorrow morning?’ I asked.

‘Every one that Shiel has been to. It just can’t be hushed up. Most of the others, too, will have something from their Manchester correspondents following the fall in Calboyd shares on Friday.’

‘Fine!’ I said. I was filled with a sudden sense of elation. If pressure were brought to bear by the press, it was just possible that the Government might be forced to act. ‘Listen,’ I said. ‘You’ll want a follow-up to that story. Why not use some of what I’ve told you?’

‘See here, Andrew,’ Fisher said, ‘there is a limit. Calboyds is one thing, but Marburg is quite another. I haven’t doubted you, which is more than most men would have done. Your story is fantastic enough to be true. But I’m not running my head into a noose. This engine you speak of may be all Schmidt says it is. On the other hand, it may not. You yourself don’t know. You haven’t tested it. I don’t know. And I’m certainly not going to pretend I do.’

‘I quite understand how you feel about Marburg,’ I said. ‘As for the engine, I agree with you — I haven’t the faintest idea what its performance really is. All I know is that Nazi agents find it worth their while to go out after him. And that’s good enough for me.’ I leaned towards him. ‘What’s your splash tomorrow? If the dailies are going to run Calboyds, you’ve got to have some sort of a follow-up, if you’re to sell your paper. I suggest you send a man to Bude. Get a detailed description of the missing Raikes, and I’ve got a hunch that he’ll be able to identify the body that is supposed to be mine. If he can, then there’s your story. Trouble at Calboyds — Raikes, the ringleader, killed — Body mistaken for that of Andrew Kilmartin — Then my story. You can churn the stuff out in relays all through the day.’

‘If this body proves to be Raikes’s,’ he murmured doubtfully.

‘Even if it doesn’t, you’ve still got my story. I was news yesterday.’ I saw his hesitation. ‘Look here, Fisher,’ I said. ‘I brought you this story, because I know you. If you don’t want it, say so. I haven’t too much time to spare. And if you don’t want it, maybe the Globe would take it.’

‘Wait a minute, wait a minute. Who said I didn’t want it? I’m only chewing over it, old boy.’ Suddenly he seemed to make up his mind. He took a notebook from his desk and seated himself in an easy-chair by the fire. ‘All right, let’s have it in detail, roughly as you think it ought to appear. Only don’t go too fast because my shorthand isn’t what it used to be.’

I glanced at my watch. It was past one. ‘Perhaps if I could have a few sandwiches or something,’ I said. ‘I’ve got to get over to the Thirlmere service. I’m meeting an old fellow down at Wapping at two-thirty who is going to row me across to the neighbouring wharf.’

Fisher rang the bell by the fireplace. ‘Well, I can help you there,’ he said. ‘I’ve got an invitation card. I wasn’t sending anyone, so there it is, if you want it. You’re about my height. I can rig you out in a suit.’ The door opened and a manservant appeared. ‘Light lunch for two at about one-thirty, Parkes. And put out some clothes of mine suitable for this gentleman to wear as a representative of the press. Now,’ he said, as the manservant closed the door, ‘go ahead.’