“Good point. You had better come up to London with us. Probably the best place for you, anyway. Have you keys or such for the hold?”
Thomas did not have keys as such, the hold having no locks, but he politely explained that he knew how to turn the handles. He led the whole group back to the DC2 and supervised as they recovered the few bags they had managed to dump aboard in the hurry of the night. The grey men peered into the hold and satisfied themselves it contained no contraband and then hopped inside the cabin to check for bogeymen. Content that the plane was empty, they led Thomas back to the wooden hut, leaving the others outside.
“Best you should make yourself available for the Air Ministry, Mr Stark. They might want to talk to you about the German planes in Spain. Did you meet up with any?”
“I shot down four Germans, but I was in the Italian sector mostly. I knocked down seven of their aircraft, and one poor chap who was in Spanish Rebel livery. He had a Messerschmitt 109 but no idea what to do with it. If he hadn’t been a Fascist, I would have let him run away, I think he was only a trainee. However, a Fascist is a Fascist and a dead one is the best of all.”
The grey man showed no evidence of agreement – but he made no objection, either.
“They will definitely want to talk to you. Quickly, your opinion on the Americans? You said they were pilots?”
“We were in the same unit, squadron, more or less. Nicknames only – better not to give our own names in Spain, we thought – Chuck, Hank and Tex – all very cowboyish. Chuck’s the short, broad-shouldered fellow. Fourteen, to my knowledge, all Italian. Hank flew for years in China before he drifted across to Spain. Six that I saw and more in other units before he joined me, and a few Japanese as well. Tex flew our ground-attack planes, by choice. I know he knocked down one Italian bomber and splatted any number of tanks. Good men, all three. If they could get into the RAF, they would more than pull their weight.”
“It probably won’t be possible, Mr Stark. No place for mercenaries in the jolly old RAF, you know. Worth a try, being short of pilots… We’ll get you all to the station and on the next express to Waterloo. The plods can organise transport and an escort for the foreigners – they have to be useful for something.”
The station sergeant smiled politely, having no choice. He did so like being called a plod by the superior gentlemen from London.
The sixteen were escorted into first-class compartments, a policeman borrowed from the station sergeant in each and thoroughly enjoying the comfort – far better than walking a beat for the morning.
There were vehicles waiting at Waterloo and the party was efficiently sent on its separate ways, no great emotional partings for lack of time. Thomas was quickly left as the sole man unaccounted for.
“A hotel, sir, is a necessity. I must ask whether you have funds available in London.”
“I should have a drawing account, sir. Barclays, I believe, is the English bank that the arrangement was set up with. I was expected the better part of eighteen months ago, but that should be no problem. My father sent a few thousand across, I know; five, I think. Will that be enough to keep me for a month or two while I work out what I’m doing?”
“It should keep you for a year or two, sir. Do you know which branch of Barclays, Mr Stark?”
“Does Piccadilly ring a bell?”
“Several, sir. I will take you there.”
Thomas wondered whether perhaps the grey gentleman was doubtful of his bona fides. It occurred to him that if Mr Thomas Stark had been killed in Spain – like so many tens of thousands of enthusiastic young men – then it would have been easy to replace him with a blond-haired, blue-eyed, sun-browned German gentleman possessed of a flying background and good English. Perhaps the spy people were wise to keep an eye on him.
The branch was properly dubious, a teller referring Thomas to his superior, who in turn spoke to an assistant manager who took the young gentleman into a secluded office, in the company of the peculiar civil servant who offered the most rare of identification.
“Mr Thomas Stark, of Brisbane, in Australia.”
“Yes, sir. I have a passport and flying licences in my name.”
The documents were scrutinised and proclaimed to be good.
“There is also a matter of certain passwords, as one might say, Mr Stark. Your father specified that you would say three words to me.”
“’Tabloid’, ‘Noah’, ‘Monkey’, I believe, sir.”
“That is so, and in that order, Mr Stark. You will wish to provide a sample of your signature, sir.”
The banker provided a sheet of paper and pens and ink, nodded his approbation as Thomas signed in green, then red and finally black.
“Thank you, Mr Stark. Entirely satisfactory, sir. An account was opened for you to the initial extent of five thousand pounds. A second deposit was made six months ago, of two thousands with a note that this sum was to be paid annually. There was a letter as well, sir.”
Thomas accepted the thin envelope and opened it to find a very few lines.
‘Received your letter from Spain. Well done, my son! Beware the Hun in the sun! Finish the job we started. If you get to England, see Noah. Last I heard he was back in the riffraff, due to the new expansion. Just bought four Dakotas to be delivered for the line in Queensland. Your sister is now general manager – doing well, naturally.
Your affectionate father,
Tommy.’
That was probably the longest letter he had ever received from the Old Man, Thomas reflected. He would write back that evening, if he could.
He passed the letter across to the grey gentleman, so that he could see it was not a spy’s instructions, then turned back to the manager.
“So, I have seven thousands in the bank, sir.”
“A little more in fact, Mr Stark. There is one hundred and eighty pounds in interest as well.”
“Riches indeed, sir. I should withdraw a small amount for day-to-day use, I think.”
“Fifty pounds would be ample, sir, in cash. A cheque-book as well.”
Thomas left ten minutes later, still in the company of the anonymous gentleman from the unspecified office.
“Which hotel would you recommend, sir?”
“The Dorchester. Comfortable and offers good food, by English standards. Also, quite fashionable – you will meet any number of young females there in the lounges and dining rooms. Will you wish to make contact with Air Commodore Arkwright, as your father suggested?”
“Noah? Of course, sir. I have not seen him since I was ten. He flew out to Australia in one of the air races then.”
“I can inform him that you are to be discovered at the Dorchester, if you wish.”
“Please do, sir. I must make my thanks for your assistance, sir. I had thought that there might be trouble for landing in an unknown aircraft with a rather dodgy set of passengers.”
The grey man smiled.
“We were told that a plane was coming, Mr Stark - to England, that is, not exactly where. We were not given any names. Five hours before you landed. It is reasonable to suggest that one or two of your acquaintances in Barcelona were providing information to the Nationalists, to the Condor Legion, in fact. In turn, more than one of the officers there was, and still is, providing information to us.”
“Should I know that, sir?”
“No, of course not. I have no fears for your loyalty, Mr Stark, not since I telephoned my office. I work for a gentleman who was once known as Nancy, in military intelligence, I believe – you may have heard of him. He has no qualms about a Stark, it would seem.”
“May I tell my father of that, sir? They were close friends and comrades.”
“Face-to-face, yes. Not by letter.”
The Dorchester was inclined to be dismissive of a single young man with one, rather small, suitcase and a large leather document case as his sole luggage. The Gentleman at the front desk rather feared the hotel to be full, not a room available. The grey man shrugged and displayed his
little card and requested the use of a telephone. He made a short call and then nodded the reception clerk across and gave him the receiver.
“I am sorry, sir, but we have no single rooms available.”
The conversation was cut off and the clerk turned back, smiling superciliously – he was not to be browbeaten, it seemed. Thomas bent down to pick up his case.
“Wait, Mr Stark.”
There was the faint sound of a telephone ringing somewhere inside the offices.
The grey man glanced at his wristwatch.
“Two minutes, I might estimate, Mr Stark.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t understand…”
Thomas was cut off by a door opening in the corner of the reception office. It was flush to the panelling, could barely be seen from the public side.
“Mr Adams, here, if you please.”
The clerk stepped across, disappeared inside, returned in thirty seconds, running.
“Second floor, sir. Suite number four. My apologies, sir.”
He called for the porter to run the gentleman’s bags quickly up to his suite.
“How long do you intend to remain, sir? Will you sign in the ledger, if you please, sir?”
He glanced at the entry as he passed a key across.
“That is Mr Stark of Brisbane, sir? Certainly, sir. If you wish to take a luncheon, sir? No? Tea or coffee, perhaps? To your room, sir? Immediately, sir!”
“Thank you. I was flying all night and will wish to take a brief sleep. Dinner at what time?”
“To your convenience, sir. At any time of the evening, sir.”
The grey man nodded a distant farewell and wandered quietly away, blending into the passers-by and making his way, presumably, to his offices. Thomas realised as he went that he would not recognise the man on a second meeting – he was truly anonymous.
A second porter escorted Thomas to his rooms – a small sitting room with two easy chairs, a coffee table and a sideboard equipped with an array of bottles and glasses; a large bedroom with a massive double-bed made up with silk sheets; a bathroom sporting a civilised shower cubicle as well as the quintessentially English bath. The towels were luxuriously thick.
“Your coffee has arrived, sir. Will you require anything else, sir?”
“Not yet. I intend to get a couple of hours of sleep. Could you return at five o’clock with more coffee?”
“Of course, sir.” The porter palmed the ten-shilling note that came his way and left on silent feet. The carpeting was so thick that he could not have made a noise.
The sixteen months in the Civil War had equipped Thomas with the veteran’s ability to make the most of short naps and to sleep anywhere and instantly. He awoke at half-past four, showered and changed into his other set of civilian clothes, a suit that had spent most of the previous eighteen months in the case and which needed the services of an iron – or some such domestic tool, he was not sure which. Shirt and tie were both Brisbane’s best; he wondered what London would make of them. The porter arrived on the dot of five with coffee-pot steaming.
“Thank you. I left most of my clothes behind in Spain. Where do I go to get more that are fit to be seen in?”
“Savile Row, sir. Might I offer you Mr Montague’s card? He will be able to fix you up with something immediately while you are waiting for your proper wardrobe, sir.”
“Good on you. Should I mention your name?”
“No, sir. It would be appreciated if you would show him the card.”
Thomas glanced at the square of pasteboard, turned it over to see ‘MP, D’ inked on the back in one corner.
“Will do. Tomorrow morning. Are there newspapers to hand?”
“There are, sir. There is also the wireless on the sideboard, sir. The BBC will be broadcasting news on the hour, sir.”
The porter left. Thomas saw his hand not to be outstretched – the initial ten shillings sufficed for the while. A fiver when he checked out, of course – it was a leading hotel.
He sat with a coffee cup to hand, distinctly unimpressed by the brew – the Dorchester had many skills, no doubt, but the making of coffee was not one of them. It was time to indulge in some serious thinking.
A ship to Australia was the simplest course. He could be a Flying Officer in the Air Force there within the week of getting home. Flight Lieutenant would take another month. His father’s money would more than suffice to see to that. There was a good chance that the Old Man would join up as well. Too old for flying duties in fighters in his early forties, he would still have a lot to offer on the ground, and he was, had been, a bomber by choice. Bomber pilots remained flying longer than fighters.
Joining the RAF in England might also be attractive, but he had almost no contacts in the country and was damned if he was going to spend six months as a cadet going through flying training, not with the hours he had racked up. He had twelve kills to his name and any number of ground attacks and had flown literally dozens of different planes. The company of schoolboys did not appeal.
If he could organise a commission in the RAF, then he would follow in his father’s footsteps. If not, back home and join up there. There was certainly a war coming and he had unfinished business with the Fascists. They had bombed and butchered civilians with casual cynicism and he did not approve of that. Killing a few more of them was a highly sensible course of action.
He wandered down to the dining rooms soon after seven, hungry after a long break between meals. English cooking was renowned world-wide; it was universally regarded as awful. He wondered if the Dorchester could produce an edible steak. Glancing at his clothing, the maître d’ ushered him to a side table, almost out of sight of the rest of the room.
He sat in the nearest of the bars two hours later, resigned to life in a culinary desert. There must be some restaurant in a city the size of London that actually knew how to cook. The beer was good, however, better than he had found in Spain. He leaned back in the corner of the large bar, sat to silently watch the cream of Society passing through. Skinny girls in revealing dresses proliferated. Smarmily greased young men - their hair shining with brilliantine and much more covered-up by evening dress, patent leather shoes gleaming - brayed loudly and escorted their ladies to the nearby dance floor. They were not especially impressive specimens of humanity. Thomas noticed a number of speculative glances coming his way, mostly from young females at the edge of parties, one or two from equally isolated young, and older, men.
He retired early, unwilling to face the strains of introductions.
The morning saw him in a taxi to the tailor.
Chapter Two
The Gathering Clouds
“How may we help you, sir?”
A lesser assistant on the floor of the tailors stepped forward to greet Thomas, sneering at his suit and its Australian cut.
Thomas presented the card.
“I was recommended to you from the Dorchester. I am just in from Spain and possess the clothes I stand up in. I need immediate off-the-peg casual and evening wear while you make me up a wardrobe. My name is Stark and Barclays at Piccadilly will vouch for me.”
He had a suspicion that being ‘in from Spain’ would not be much of a recommendation to an expensive tailor. A substantial bank account would be far more acceptable.
The assistant was perhaps ten years older than Thomas and felt inferior to him, which he resented. He thought Thomas was patronising him – it was not his fault he had not gone out to Spain, he wasn’t a moneyed idler who could afford such indulgences. He had to provide for the client’s needs, like it or not. He forced a smile.
“A full wardrobe, sir?”
“Day and evening dress, casual and formal. Not too relaxed, nothing of the man about town. I have some expectations of taking a commission and need a restrained style – I shall not be gracing the Brigade of Guards!”
Even in Australia, Thomas had heard of the Brigade of Guards and the popularly assumed proclivities of its officers.
“Certainl
y, sir.”
The tailor would not lower himself to vulgarity.
“I have lost my entire baggage. I got out of Spain with nothing to spare.”
“Then the first need is to kit you out with a week’s clothing, sir. Fortunately, you are of strong build, sir, and it will be easy to quickly modify some of our ready-mades. We do keep a stock of such, sir, to meet urgent need and accident. We may have your proper clothing ready inside the week. If we could just take your measurements, sir?”
The measure came out, together with a younger trainee to take down the figures.
“Five feet eight inches in height; thirty inch inside leg; twenty-eight inch at the waist and forty-four on the chest. A powerful build, sir.”
“It comes in part of flying since I was a boy. My father brought me up in his own way, my mother dying in the Flu’ Epidemic.”
“As did so many of our loved ones, sir. A disaster on top of the Great War. Your father’s name is also Mr Thomas Stark, sir?”
“It is.”
“Very good, sir. I believe Mr Montague performed a few weeks of his war service under your father’s command. He will be interested to meet you, sir. Johnson, please inform Mr Montague of Mr Stark’s presence.”
They watched as the young man scurried, anxious to please.
“Service in a war will do him some good, Mr Stark!”
Thomas said nothing.
“Now, sir, casual clothing – Oxford bags, perhaps?”
“No. I wish to look like an officer and a gentleman, not like an overgrown pampered schoolboy.”
“Students will have their little excesses, sir.”
“So they may. My tastes do not stray in that fashion. I find little need to shock the onlooker.”
“Much more restrained, I presume, sir.”
“From the little I saw in Australian papers two years ago, the Oxford bags were the dress of the idle rich youth. I no longer feel youthful and I shall not be idle.”
The Gathering Clouds (Innocent No More Series, Book 1) Page 2