‘The explosion in Chiswick demolished two houses, causing twelve casualties, five of them fatal. The second rocket landed on farmland near Edgware, destroying some barns and outhouses, and injuring two farm workers. Their injuries are not thought to be serious. These rockets appear to be of a new type, and have been designated V2s, as successors to the V1 flying bombs, which the Germans have now abandoned.
‘The War Office says that the V2s will be defeated in the same way. Additional fighter squadrons are already being deployed over southern England, to destroy the slow-moving rockets before they cross the coastline. There are no plans for evacuation, and the government is stressing that danger to the public is far less than that faced during the Blitz.’
Adam reflected on this new threat. Perhaps Canada wasn’t such a bad idea after all. The newsreader moved on.
‘Police are investigating the death of a city councillor in Bristol today. James Baxter, aged forty-five, who died of gunshot wounds, was a captain in the Home Guard. He died when a pistol was fired during a military exercise. It’s believed that Captain Baxter may have accidentally discharged the gun himself.
‘And now the weather….’
Adam switched the radio off, so that he could stop and think. Something in that last item had started his brain working. He remembered that Mark Jefferson had been in the Home Guard. And he’d also met an accidental death. That was something else to think about.
The new twist in the war against Hitler was the first topic when Westley and his friends began their meeting.
‘What’s the truth about these V2 things?’ Charles Bell demanded. ‘The press seem to be playing down the whole issue.’
‘That’s government policy,’ Westley replied. ‘In fact, the Cabinet are extremely worried. In private, Churchill is saying this is the biggest danger Britain’s faced since we saw off the threat of invasion.’
‘Hell!’ said Hugh Denby. ‘Just when we thought the bastards were finished!’
‘They are finished,’ said Westley. ‘Nothing can stop the Allied advance in Europe. But Hitler wants to kill as many people as he can before we hang him.’
‘What’s known about the actual rockets?’ Jupp enquired.
‘Just the basic facts. They carry high-explosive warheads, which go off on impact. They can’t be aimed with any accuracy. They’re fired from occupied Holland, pointed in the general direction of London. They can land anywhere within a fifty-mile radius and, needless to say, they can cause a lot of damage.’
‘What defence is there?’
‘None,’ was Westley’s blunt answer.
‘The War Office says that our fighters will destroy the rockets in mid-air,’ said Bell.
‘Window dressing, I’m afraid,’ said Westley. ‘The damn things go too fast. If our aircraft can hit one in twenty, they’ll be doing well.’
‘So what will the government do?’
‘The rockets will only be stopped when our army reaches the launching sites. That may take some weeks.’
‘Has anyone thought of bombing these launch sites?’ asked Cox.
‘They’ll be trying,’ said Westley. ‘But our agents say they’re deep underground and heavily camouflaged.’
‘Could we drop paratroops to take the area in advance of the main force?’
‘That’s been suggested. But there’s opposition. The army don’t want another Arnhem.’
‘So, for now, any of us can be blown up at any time?’
‘That’s about the size of it,’ Westley conceded. ‘The government’s only option is to belittle the danger and prevent panic, while we wait for our troops to do the job.’
Denby voiced the question that was in everyone’s mind. ‘Is this going to affect our plans?’
‘Basically no. As I said, V2 impact is indiscriminate and unpredictable, affecting friend and foe alike. What we can’t foresee, we can’t take into account. So we carry on, exactly as planned.’
There were murmurs of approval around the table.
‘Of course, there could be complications,’ Westley continued, ‘if the Cabinet decided to evacuate certain public figures to the provinces.’
‘Is that a possibility?’
‘It has been discussed. They might move Churchill and his headquarters staff out into the country, probably somewhere up north, beyond the V2 range. Also, the King and Queen, plus some ministers considered vital to the war effort.’ Westley allowed himself a rare smile. ‘I believe I may be one of them.’
‘So you would be fully in the picture?’
‘Exactly. In that event, the job of making arrests would be handled by our local units, instead of our metropolitan strike force.’
‘And they’d have sufficient warning?’
‘Certainly. But I don’t think the situation will arise. Even if the decision were taken, I don’t believe the moves could be arranged before our day of action.’
‘It seems to me,’ said Bell, ‘that this V2 scare could work in our favour. The police and the army will have their hands full dealing with these V2s. Plus the public alarm they’re going to cause.’
Westley smiled again, using up his ration for the week. ‘Exactly. Furthermore, in due course the army will overrun these sites and put a stop to the rockets. If that happens after our takeover, we’ll get the credit. Now let’s move on.’ Ernest Cox had raised a hand. ‘Ernie, you wanted to say something?’
‘Yes,’ said Cox. ‘I want to congratulate you and our active-service unit on the efficient way the traitor Martin Hunter has been silenced.’
Westley looked stern. ‘Ah. Please be careful, everyone. Don’t assume Hunter’s death had anything to do with our organization. The police are checking on enemies he may have made at the time of the Spanish Civil War.’
Gerald Collis now spoke quietly. ‘I for one deeply regret Martin’s death. I still believe that there were other ways of dealing with the problem.’
‘Your views are noted,’ said Westley.
There was an awkward silence. Then Bill Ford spoke up.
‘What’s the latest on the Tilfleet cock-up? Have they recovered that notebook yet? And what about the thief? Have they caught him?’
‘Not yet, I’m afraid. There was a reported sighting of the man Webber in London on Tuesday. Our men moved quickly but by the time they got there the man had gone. Of course, it may not have been Webber anyway. I have no more details.’
Jupp’s eyes remained firmly fixed on the papers in front of him. The pound notes he’d handed out had been money well spent.
‘Our people are continuing the search,’ said Westley. ‘We’re now offering a reward of five hundred pounds to the London underworld for anyone who can deliver Webber alive.’
‘Oh dear,’ sighed Bell. ‘More gangsters.’
Westley produced words that had served him well in the past. ‘You can be sure that we’re leaving no stone unturned.’
Onstage, Vic Dudley was in full flow. He’d been promoted to the penultimate spot in the show, and he was making the most of it. ‘Got a question for you. Little question. Do infants get as much fun from infancy as adults do from adultery? There’s a lot of it goes on, you know. Friend of mine came back from the Far East, he’d been away a year. First night home he was in bed with his wife; they’d left a light on downstairs. Air-raid warden banged on the door. My mate woke up in a panic, he said, “My God, is that your husband?” His wife said, “No, don’t worry, my husband’s in the Far East.”
‘Course, we shouldn’t do it. All these good people tell us we shouldn’t. There’s a big notice outside our local church. “If you’re tired of sin, come in.” Underneath, someone’s written “If you’re not, ring Bayswater 2429”.’
Vic was getting a few laughs, but not from Paynter or Garrett. They’d heard all this twice before. Entertainment at the Windmill was non-stop, the same programme being played five times a day, with a ten-minute interval between shows. No one had to leave. You could come in when you wanted, and leav
e when you chose. The audience consisted almost entirely of men, all eager to get to the front rows for a closer look at the girls.
So, when front seats were vacated by customers who had to get back to the office or go home, men from further back rushed forward to grab the empty places. Climbing over the back of the seats was forbidden, and punished by expulsion. So experienced Windmill-goers always sat at the end of a row when they first arrived, ready for the spring forward, until they finally reached Row A.
Paynter and Garrett had come into the theatre at four, and had made it to the front row at 8.30, in time for the start of the last show. As they’d made their final charge, they’d faced competition from another man, slightly closer, approaching the vacant seats from the opposite direction. But this was a small man in a suit, with fountain pen and propelling pencil protruding from his breast pocket. Paynter had glared at him and he’d melted away. Thus they’d been watching the final run from the best possible vantage point. Seeing the girls repeat their routines had brought nothing but pleasure. Hearing Vic Dudley’s jokes for the third time was a small price to pay.
With the help of the programme, they’d identified Jane Hart as the fan-dancer in the South Seas number, and they’d studied her diligently, to ensure they’d recognize her later. They’d also spotted Maggie early on, standing on a pedestal at the back, pretending to be a classical statue. Garrett had made the connection.
‘Blimey, that’s the bint at the flat – the one I shoved in the bedroom!’
‘You’re right,’ Paynter had observed. ‘You missed a chance there, Sid.’
‘Yeah, well, she didn’t look so good with her hair in curlers and that white stuff on her boat.’
Now Vic Dudley was coming to the end of his act, and the two men were looking forward to the finale. They’d done their reconnaissance and located the stage door before they came in.
‘There’s been a bit of trouble backstage,’ Vic Dudley was saying. ‘They found a little hole punched in the wall between my room and the girls’ dressing room. That’s right, a little hole in the wall. The manager was furious, he said, “This is disgraceful! We can’t have that sort of thing here!” I said, “Don’t make a fuss, it doesn’t bother me. If it gives them pleasure, let them peep.”
‘Anyway, there it is. There’s a hole in the dressing-room wall, and I’d better go and look into it. So I’ll leave you with this thought. A happy life depends on working well and sleeping well. So watch out who you work with and who you see as a friend. Good night.’
Vic took his bow to a sprinkling of applause, the pianist went into his play-off music, and the red plush curtains swished together.
Paynter and Garrett settled down to enjoy the seaside spectacular for the third time. They could relax. There’d be plenty of time at the end to get to the stage door before the performers began to leave.
Bert Bailey had left his den behind the counter and was standing at the open stage door, taking the air. A portly, fifty-ish, balding man, short of exercise, he found even the Soho air refreshing after a long spell inhaling the stale smells of grease-paint, sweat and cigarette smoke. He surveyed the scene outside in Archer Street. It was a mild night, bright with moonlight, and the tart on the corner was looking relaxed and cheerful. People, on their way to pubs and clubs, were content to stroll at a leisurely pace.
The tart exchanged friendly words with all the male passers-by who weren’t accompanied by women and was not offended when they continued on their way. From the next street came the sound of a team of buskers, one with a concertina, the other playing the spoons. And then, of course, there were the loiterers.
‘Cheerio, Bert. See you tomorrow.’
The first of the company to leave was the pianist, Ronnie Bridges. It didn’t take him long to change from dinner jacket to casual clothes, and he was keen to get back to his home in Essex.
‘Good night, Ronnie,’ said Bert. It was all first names at the Windmill: except, of course, for the manager, Vivian Van Damm. He was always ‘Mr Van Damm’ to his face, and ‘VD’ behind his back.
Bert resumed his survey. He was used to men lingering near the stage door. Many of them he knew: regular boyfriends of Windmill girls. Others were fans or admirers, anxious to greet a favourite as she came out and perhaps strike up an acquaintance.
The girls were adept at brushing off unwanted approaches politely but firmly. If he saw a girl being harassed, Bert was always ready to step out and intervene. It seldom happened. But he liked to keep a watchful eye.
Tonight he was a little concerned about two large men standing together in a doorway across the street. They seemed anxious to stay back in the shadows. But the reflected moonlight allowed Bert to see two craggy faces, watching the stage door intently. He sensed something different about this pair: something, perhaps, a little sinister. One was smoking a cheap, small cigar, and the aroma was filtering across the street in the still air. Bert felt these two could be trouble.
Monk wished Inspector Jessett wouldn’t smoke those damned little cigars. To him, they smelt like a garden bonfire, on which someone had carelessly left a Wellington boot. But it was something he’d had to learn to live with.
Jessett glanced at the luminous dial on his watch and found it was 10.40. ‘Why does it take them so long to put on a few clothes?’ he grumbled.
Monk grinned. ‘Well, most of them have to start from scratch.’ And then, savouring a happy memory, he added, ‘I reckon that Hart girl’s quite a looker.’
‘Yes. I noticed you studying her features very carefully.’
‘In the line of duty, sir. We need to spot her quickly when she comes out, don’t we? She won’t hang about. And she might be with a bunch of people.’
‘We’ll spot her all right. And then we’ll have to be quick. You parked your car in Rupert Street?’
‘That’s right, sir. As instructed.’
‘Good. And my car’s in Great Windmill Street. So, if she turns left when she comes out and gets in a car, we follow her in mine. If she goes the other way, we use yours.’
‘She doesn’t look the sort who’d be running a car. Specially in wartime.’
‘You never know. These theatricals often have rich friends.’
‘I bet she goes home on the tube.’
‘Tube or bus, there’s no problem. We follow her wherever. We could leave the cars where they are till the morning.’
Jessett’s cigar was burned almost down to his lips. He dropped the stub and ground it under his right boot. ‘I wish they’d get a bloody move on.’
Monk could see that his boss was getting irritated. He switched the subject. ‘That was a long spell with the superintendent this afternoon, sir. Was he giving you a hard time?’
‘He tried to. It seems we’re under pressure from the Tilfleet Chamber of Commerce. They want a result on that post office blag. The local shopkeepers are worried.’
‘You told him we’d fingered Reggie Paynter?’
‘Yes. That pleased him. The super’s been wanting Paynter locked up ever since he turned up on our patch. I told him I’ve got the warrant, and we can do him for robbery and GBH.’
‘Ah. That’ll put him away for eight to ten years.’
‘Right. Now the only problem is finding him. Ever since he left his wife, there’s no address.’
‘We can pick him up at The Bull, can’t we?’
‘I doubt it. Once news of the warrant gets round, he’ll be making himself scarce, and you can bet it’s got round already. Ah, they’ve started coming out.’
Several of the male dancers had emerged from the stage door, and were being warmly greeted by some of the waiting young men.
‘The boys,’ Monk observed. ‘Always the quickest.’
‘That’s true,’ said Jessett. ‘They don’t put on quite so much make-up.’
‘We could nick a few of them, if we followed them down to Leicester Square.’
‘Not tonight, Josephine,’ said Jessett. ‘Tonight we follow the la
dy.’ And then he checked himself. ‘At least, I think we do.’ His gaze had fallen on two men waiting on the other side of the road, close to the Windmill stage door. He’d been vaguely aware of them standing around almost as long as he and Monk had: now he’d noticed something. He lowered his voice. ‘What d’you make of those two jokers over there? Anything familiar about the tall one?’
‘Not really,’ said Monk. ‘I can’t see his face.’
And then, for a moment, he could. The tall man had struck a match to light his cigarette, and his face was briefly illuminated.
‘Yes, I can!’ said Monk, with quiet excitement. ‘That’s Reggie Paynter!’
‘Talk of the devil!’ said Jessett, equally quietly. ‘It’s Reggie Paynter all right. He must fancy one of the Windmill birds.’
‘So what do we do?’ asked Monk. ‘Do we still wait for the Hart girl?’
‘No,’ said Jessett. ‘She’s always here, we can come back another night. We can’t miss this chance of nabbing Paynter.’
Monk had a suggestion. ‘What if you nick him while I wait for the girl?’
‘No, thank you, Arthur,’ said Jessett. ‘There’s two of them. And it’s a pound to a penny his oppo’s another villain. It needs both of us. Have you got cuffs?’
Monk checked the handcuffs in his overcoat pocket. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘OK,’ said Jessett. ‘Here we go. Don’t bother with the other bloke. Get the cuffs on Paynter, double-quick.’
The two policemen strolled casually across the street. As they neared their prey, Monk detached himself, on a course that would take him round behind Paynter. Jessett approached from the front, with a friendly smile on his face.
‘Evening, Reggie,’ said the inspector. ‘We’d like a word if you don’t—’ He didn’t finish the sentence. Reggie Paynter still had the fast reflexes of a boxer, and he could spot a policeman a mile off.
Before Monk could grab his arm, Paynter punched Jessett hard in the stomach, doubling him up. Then, sensing danger behind him, he spun round and butted Monk hard in the face. ‘It’s the law!’ he shouted to Garrett. And then he ran. As Jessett and Monk staggered back, Garrett also took to his heels. With the hunted man’s instinct to halve the pursuit, he fled in the opposite direction. Paynter was running west towards Great Windmill Street. Garrett ran east into Rupert Street.
The Shadow of Treason Page 11