Adam understood. The men weren’t War Office investigators. And they’d given up pretending to be. It didn’t actually make any difference, of course. If they had been genuine government officials, Adam would still have had his own reasons for not going with them. But that knife, one quick thrust away from his chest, was not to be argued with.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘That seems straightforward enough.’
‘Our guv’nor wants you alive best,’ added Cregan. ‘But dead would do.’
Adam let the men lead him towards the pier railway.
Suddenly Clark was excited. ‘Hey, look!’ he said. ‘In his side pocket!’
Cregan looked, and then he smiled. He could see the top of a blue cover just protruding. There was relief mixed with triumph in his voice. ‘Well, well. We’ll take that, son, in case you were making plans to chuck it in the sea.’
Adam shrugged. ‘I’ve often felt like it. But they’d only issue another one. It’s a summary of pier safety regulations. We have to carry it at all times.’
Cregan had grabbed the booklet and opened it. Now his voice was bitter. ‘He’s right, sod him!’ He threw the book down in disgust. ‘Well, you’ll just have to tell us where to find the real thing, won’t you?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ said Adam.
‘You will, son. You will.’
After that, the three walked on in silence.
They waited in gathering gloom at the pier-head station. In spite of the wind, dark clouds hung low overhead, and drizzle had begun to mix with the salt spray on their faces. There was no one else on the platform. It was a quiet time of day. When the train arrived from the shore, it too was almost deserted. Two seamen got out and made for the exit gate. Adam’s captors obviously thought he might cry out for help: they stood between him and the passing men, Clark’s hand firmly on his knife. But Adam made no sound.
Now the train was empty, and Cregan’s grip guided Adam into the coach furthest from the gate. There would be a short wait before the train began its return journey, and Cregan hoped that last-minute passengers would choose the nearer coaches. The two men sat either side of Adam. Nothing was said. The driver ambled along the platform from what was now the rear end of the train to what was now the front. With no room to turn, the trains had controls at both ends.
Adam’s mind was racing. He’d no way of knowing who these men were but he sensed they must be connected with Jefferson’s brutal death and the violent attack on his own room. And he realized that once they got him in a car, he’d be helpless. He had to get away in the next fifteen minutes. But the men were watching him like birds of prey, and Adam was convinced they were ready to use the knife. Indeed, it seemed that Clark could scarcely wait.
A few passengers got into the rear coaches, but it seemed no one was coming to theirs. And then, just as the train was due to leave, a middle-aged man in a dark suit came strolling along the platform, swinging a rolled-up umbrella. He entered their carriage and took a seat close by, but not quite opposite them. As the newcomer sat down, the doors closed, the engine began to hum, and the train moved slowly off on its seven-minute journey to the shore.
By now, Adam had made his plan. Having done this trip many times, he knew that, two thirds of the way along, the train always lurched, as it changed tracks at a fairly rough junction. At times when the train was full, and there were people standing, he’d seen some of them thrown off balance as it jolted. The men wouldn’t be expecting that. Adam would. And he knew where the emergency button was, to stop the train and open the doors. This would be his chance: a slim one, but the only chance he was likely to get.
While he waited for the train to reach the junction, Adam studied their fellow passenger. He felt that he’d seen him before, but he couldn’t remember where or when. Perhaps it was his imagination. The greying hair, the unremarkable features, the white shirt, sober tie and polished shoes would have had the man cast as a senior civil servant in one of the British films of the time. Maybe that’s what he was. Top-level people often visited the pier for naval business or research.
Adam looked round to see if there was anything to help his escape bid. And there was. His gaze fell on a twelve-inch red cylinder fixed to one of the carriage uprights. It was the standard small fire extinguisher. The big moment was approaching, and now the train was travelling at speed. Outwardly, Adam seemed cowed: inwardly, he was bracing himself for action.
And then they hit the junction. There were two loud clunks, the coach rocked, and Clark was unprepared. With one hand on his knife and the other on the front of his coat, he had no upright support and was thrown sideways towards Adam. As he swayed, Adam landed a rabbit-punch behind his ear, sprang to his feet, and snatched the fire extinguisher. Taken by surprise, Cregan was a fraction slow getting up and, as he rose, Adam brought the heavy cylinder hard down on his head. Then he pressed the emergency button.
Cregan and Clark were only briefly stunned, and both were now trying to grab their prisoner. Adam stepped back, pulled the lever on the fire extinguisher, and fired a jet of foam, first into Clark’s face, and then into Cregan’s. Again the respite was brief, but now the doors were open. Adam threw himself through the space and began running along the walkway beside the track. By the time the men got out, Adam was five yards away, and going fast. ‘Croak him!’ yelled Clark. ‘Use the gun!’
Cregan had the gun out of his pocket already. He steadied himself and took careful aim. Twelve yards away, Adam was an easy target.
But the man in the dark suit had also got off the train. And he’d flicked a switch in his umbrella and drawn out a sword-stick. As Cregan’s finger tightened on the trigger, the man thrust the blade deep into his back, between the shoulder blades. The trigger remained unpulled, and Cregan slumped to the deck.
Clark watched with astonishment and terror as the man withdrew the sword from Cregan’s body and turned towards him. His knife would be no match for that long blade. He’d always enjoyed administering cold steel, but he had no enthusiasm for receiving it. Quickly deciding that a ducking would be preferable, he vaulted over the railings at the side of the pier. He’d miscalculated. At the pier-head, the sea was fathoms deep. But the train had brought them close to the shore, and the tide was out. Clark fell thirty yards onto hard sand, and lay there in a crumpled heap.
The man in the dark suit wiped his sword-stick on Cregan’s jacket, removing the blood. Then he replaced it in the umbrella, and began walking briskly back towards the pier-head.
Running at full tilt into a strong wind, Adam was unaware of the drama taking place behind him. It was strangely noiseless, the accuracy of the sword-thrust giving Cregan no chance to cry out. Adam didn’t look back. Escape was his sole concern.
He found himself running towards the shore, that being the direction in which he’d tumbled from the train. The thought raced through his mind that perhaps he should be running back to the research centre, to don his white coat and apologize for a prolonged tea break. But in his heart he knew that life could never return to the normality he’d enjoyed in the last six weeks. He didn’t know the fatal outcome of the scuffle outside the carriage. But he realized that the stopping of the train and the struggle in the coach would be reported. There’d be an investigation and his guilty secret was likely to be discovered.
So he ran on. His immediate need was to get off the pier and away from the thugs. He was now approaching the pier entrance. The turnstiles which had admitted holidaymakers in peace-time had been replaced by a naval checkpoint, with a guard-room and a barrier. As Adam got close, he risked glancing back. No one was following. Relieved, he slowed down to a walking pace, striving to regain his breath and a calmer appearance.
At the barrier, two men in dark blue raincoats had shown their passes and were talking to the guard, who seemed to be giving them directions. Then he saw Adam approaching. ‘That’s Mr Webber now,’ he told the men helpfully. As the men moved forward to meet him, Adam’s mind reeled under ano
ther blow. These burly individuals were obviously two more members of the gang from whom he’d just escaped. Was the whole world out to get him?
‘Ah, Mr Webber,’ said the detective sergeant genially. ‘We’d like a word with you, please.’
Adam hit him as hard as he could, pushed the other man aside, vaulted the barrier, and resumed running.
‘My uncle’s a very clever man,’ said Vic Dudley. ‘He’s crossed a sheep with a kangaroo. That’s right, a sheep and a kangaroo. So he gets woolly jumpers. And another thing …’ He paused. There was mild laughter from the Windmill audience. They hadn’t come to hear jokes: they’d come to see the girls. But Dudley had a pleasant personality. They’d tolerate him, as long as he didn’t go on too long.
‘Thanks for the titter,’ said Dudley. ‘We’re always glad of titters here. And another thing. He crossed a carrier pigeon with a woodpecker. Very clever. He’s got a bird that carries messages and knocks on the door when it gets there.’
In the wings, Jane and two other girls, dressed in fishnet tights and not much else, were watching. Dudley was not only personable but also rather good-looking. Jane felt a hand on her shoulder, and turned to find Andy, one of the stagehands. ‘Message from Bert,’ he said quietly. ‘Your mum rang. She wants you to phone back as soon as you can.’
Bert was the stage-door man, and keeper of the backstage telephone. Jane was alarmed. Her mum had never rung her at the theatre before. But she’d given her the number in case of emergency. This must be an emergency. She thought quickly. Vic Dudley had only just started his routine: he had a way to go. Then there’d be the accordion act. She had fifteen minutes before she was needed for the Montmartre scene. She hurried towards the stage door.
Mrs Hart was almost incoherent with alarm, emotion, and the sheer amount of news she had to tell. As soon as Jane said hello, it all came tumbling out.
‘Jane, dear, the most dreadful things have been happening here! Mr Cooper’s been murdered!’
‘Murdered?’ Jane was aghast. This was Britain in the 1940s. Murders were rare. ‘Murdered?!’
‘Someone knocked him about so badly he died! Millie and I found him this morning. In a pool of blood,’ she added, to fill in the picture.
‘My God, how awful! How did it happen?’
‘That’s even worse! The police think Mr Webber did it!’
‘Adam Webber? That’s impossible!’
‘It’s true, dear. After they had that quarrel, when you were clearing number six, Mr Cooper smashed up Mr Webber’s room! And they think Mr Webber went back and beat him up!’
‘But he couldn’t have, he was with … I mean, he’s not that kind of man.’
‘You don’t know the half of it, dear. The police went to arrest him on Southend Pier, and he attacked them and got away!’
‘Attacked the police? That I don’t believe!’
‘And there was a fight, and two men got killed!’
‘What?!’
‘It’s true! It was on the nine o’clock news! The police are searching for Adam Webber. Anyone who sees him has to ring Scotland Yard. Whitehall 1212.’
‘Mum, I’ve got to go. What am I supposed to do about all this?’
‘There’s nothing you can do. I just thought you ought to know. I didn’t want you having too much of a shock when you get home. There’s a policeman on duty in the hall.’
‘Just as well, with all this going on! But I’m sure Adam’s done nothing wrong!’
‘Then why’s he run away, dear? You’re too trusting, you are. If he comes near you, make sure you call the police.’
Jane could hear The Accordion Aces going into their last number. ‘I’ve got to go, Mum. I’m on in two minutes. See you later. Take care.’
She hung up, and raced back to the wings, ready to take her place for ‘One Night In Paris’. But her mind wasn’t in France. It was in turmoil.
There were another fifty minutes and four routines to get through, which Jane did on automatic pilot. The Windmill girls were well drilled, and she made only one mistake, turning left instead of right in the seascape ballet, and nearly bending Neptune’s cardboard trident. But at last the final curtain fell, and the cast dispersed to their dressing rooms. There were six girls sharing Jane’s room, and the chair next to her was occupied by her friend, Maggie. Maggie took a good look at her.
‘Are you all right, Janie?’ she asked. ‘You’ve gone all tense. I thought you were going to fall over in that last number.’
Jane was hurrying to remove her stage make-up and get away. Her reply was terse, and obviously false. ‘Yes, I’m OK, thanks. But I’ve got to rush.’
‘Come off it, you’ve been wobbling like a jelly. Something’s the matter!’
‘All right, yes, it is. But I haven’t got time to explain. I’ll tell you on Friday, when things are a bit clearer.’
‘OK. But listen, if you’re in trouble, if you need help, you let me know, right? I mean it.’
‘Thanks, Maggie.’ Jane knew she meant it. Maggie’s heart was as big as Tower Bridge, near which she’d been born. But now the need was to get home and see what was happening. And she had to sort out her thoughts. She’d only known Adam casually for a few weeks, and intimately for twenty-four hours. But last night was enough to tell her there was something special between them, and she’d have sworn he was a good man. Had she got it wrong? She knew, of course, that he hadn’t murdered Maurice Cooper. But what was this about attacking police, and men being killed on the pier?
Jane finished dressing, said a quick good night to the girls, and hurried away. At the stage-door, Bert looked up from his evening paper. ‘Oi, Jane, did you see? There’s been a nasty murder in Tilfleet. That’s where you live, innit?’
‘Yes,’ said Jane. ‘I want to get home and see my mum’s all right.’
‘Well, mind how you go, there’s some funny people about,’ said Bert, adding as an afterthought, ‘Pity that bloke Dudley’s not one of them.’
As Jane stepped out into the alley behind the theatre, a figure moved forward from the shadows.
‘Jane,’ said Adam. ‘Can we talk?’
Jane was shaken, but she knew at once that she was glad to see him. She managed to blurt out, ‘My God, it’s you!’ She’d been about to speak his name, but then remembered he was a wanted man. She moved close to him, and he put his arms around her. He smelled of salt spray, but he also smelled of Adam, which was comforting. ‘What the hell’s been going on?’ she asked.
‘I don’t know,’ said Adam. ‘But I can tell you what’s happened to me, if you’ve got time. Is there somewhere we can have coffee?’
‘Solly’s Salt-Beef Bar,’ said Jane. ‘You must be starving.’
So, for the second day running, the two of them sat at a cafe table drinking coffee. But now the dainty biscuits had been replaced by huge hot salt-beef sandwiches, which Adam was wolfing down. Only thirty hours had elapsed since the red-and-white tablecloths of Tilfleet’s Crescent Tea Rooms. And now they were in a different world – a bare wooden table in a crowded little Soho nosh-bar, amid a haze of cigarette smoke, and the babble of London voices. And events had changed their lives for ever.
It took Adam ten minutes to tell Jane all he’d been through since they parted that morning: a tale punctuated by her exclamations of surprise and alarm. In turn, she was expecting to amaze him with the news of Cooper’s death, but it turned out he’d already read about it in the evening paper and vented his astonishment and disbelief hours ago. And then, when they’d shared all the day’s astonishing stories, and expressed their mutual bewilderment, there was a pause. And Jane had to ask the inevitable question.
‘Adam, I know for a fact that you didn’t kill Maurice Cooper. And it’s not your fault these men attacked you. So you’d done nothing wrong.’
‘No. Nothing.’
‘And when you came off the pier, you didn’t know you were wanted for questioning.’
‘No, I didn’t.’
‘So why d
idn’t you go straight to the police and tell them these men had tried to kidnap you?’
Adam munched his salt-beef for a moment. Then he said, ‘I bought an evening paper. The Stop Press column said the police were looking for Adam Webber. In connection with a murder in Tilfleet.’
Jane frowned. ‘No, Adam, that won’t do. You knew I could tell them you didn’t kill Cooper.’
‘Then your mum and everyone else would know we’d spent the night together.’
‘There might be ways round that. And, anyway, a little embarrassment’s not as bad as a murder charge. There’s something else, isn’t there?’
‘Something else?’
‘You thought you had two thugs chasing you … trying to kill you! You wouldn’t have stopped to buy a newspaper. You’d be looking for help.’ Jane’s eyes locked onto Adam’s. ‘Why didn’t you go to the police, Adam?’
Adam sighed. ‘All right, Jane, I suppose I’ll have to tell you.’ He cleared his throat. ‘I reckoned that, once the police began questioning me about the trouble on the pier and the damage to my room, they’d start checking on my background. And then they’d find out I’m not Adam Webber.’
Jane spilled some coffee from her cup. Then she steadied herself, and put it carefully down on her saucer.
‘Excuse me, did you just say you’re not Adam Webber?’
‘I’m the Adam Webber who’s been working on the pier for the last six weeks. But no, I’m not the original Adam Webber.’
‘Perhaps you’d better explain.’
Adam thought for a moment. A juke-box was blaring, and the other customers were deep in their own conversations. He wouldn’t be overheard. So he said, ‘Yes, perhaps I should.’
‘This had better be good.’
‘I can’t say it’s good. But it’ll be the truth.’
‘I certainly hope so.’
‘All the stuff I told you, about Bristol and my parents in Canada and so on, that’s all true. Right up to my last day at London University. I was sharing digs in Bloomsbury with another student. Adam Webber.’
The Shadow of Treason Page 5