Be Not Afraid

by Christopher Nicole

  “You are accusing a German political party, these Nazi people, of attempting to kill your father?”

  “There can be no doubt about it. But I would not like that to be printed, at least at this time.”

  Leighton nodded. “I can appreciate that. But what good do you suppose a fortnight will do? They must eventually find out that he is alive.”

  “It gives me a chance to take certain steps.”

  “You?” His smile was condescending. “What steps?”

  “I prefer to keep that private, if you don’t mind. Now I have a train to catch. Thank you for a lovely lunch, Mr Leighton. Can I expect to see that story in tomorrow’s paper?”

  “You’re not finished yet, young lady.”

  “I assure you I am.”

  “And I assure you that you’re not. You have not told me the most important fact of all: why is the Nazi Party so eager to kill your father?”

  “You will have to ask him that, when he is stronger. I have no idea.”

  “I think you do. I think it is to do with undercover work he carried out for the government. We know, from his evidence in court, that he infiltrated the Serbian army before the war. I know, because I provided the cover, that he went to Germany in 1921 and there met the Nazi leaders, including Herr Hitler, although they were hardly yet a party. There is also a rumour that the bomb which so nearly did for Hitler a couple of years ago was his work.”

  “If you know so much about my father’s activities, what more do you want from me?”

  “I want you to tell me if he did actually infiltrate the Nazi Party, perhaps became a member of it.”

  “And, as I have said, you will have to ask him.”

  They gazed at each other for several seconds. Then Leighton said. “Perhaps I will.”

  “Then I’ll say goodbye, and again, thanks for the lunch.”

  “Do you know what it means when a man takes a woman out to lunch?”

  “It can mean a great many things, Mr Leighton, depending on the man and the circumstances. As you are a prominent newspaper editor, I am assuming that you are interested in my story. If you were a handsome young man, I would assume that you also wished to form a relationship, and I might be interested. If you were an ugly old man, I would assume that you wished to get me into bed, and I should not be in the least interested. And if, in the role of an ugly old man seeking sex, you were to make any indecent advances to me, I should up-end this carafe of water over your head, and take my story to another editor. Good day to you, Mr Leighton.”

  *

  “Miss Townsend?” The secretary was a very stiff young man, smart in his khaki uniform with its brass-buttoned tunic and Sam Browne. “General Shrimpton will see you now.”

  He seemed rather surprised.

  “Thank you.” Anna allowed him a dazzling smile, then went past the door he was holding open.

  Shrimpton was seated behind his desk but stood up as she entered. “Miss Townsend? Good heavens.”

  Anna was by now used to this reaction. “General Shrimpton. My father has often spoken of you.”

  “He has never spoken of you at all. Do sit down.”

  “Thank you.” Anna sat down and crossed her legs.

  Shrimpton sat opposite her. “Forgive me, but are you the young lady who—”

  “Yes, General. I was kidnapped when I was twelve years old and held in various houses for five years until my father rescued me. I am sure you have a file on it.”

  “Indeed. Your father acted with our blessing. It had to be unofficial, of course, but we were very pleased that he was successful. It is a shame that since then his relationship with the army has turned sour.”

  “My father did, as he has always done, what he thought to be right.”

  “It is a point of view which sadly cannot always obtain in matters which are at once important and secret. Has he sent you here to offer an apology?”

  “My father does not know I am here, General. He is at present in hospital, very seriously ill.”

  Shrimpton’s eyes flickered, and she realised he knew what had happened. “That must be very worrying for you. May I ask the nature of this illness?”

  “Three days ago, my father was shot, twice, at close range.”

  “Good heavens. And he survived?”

  “Yes, General. He has survived, so far. He is a difficult man to kill.”

  “So his record indicates,” Shrimpton commented. “Are you telling me that the Karlovy woman somehow escaped from prison?”

  “It was not the Karlovy woman. This was an entirely different woman. But we suppose she came from the same source. The attempts on my father’s life were set up and paid for by a political party in Germany. The Nazis.”

  “Oh, come now.”

  “That is fact, General. The Karlovy woman confessed it to my father before she was tried.”

  “And he never told anyone?”

  “He told me. He did not consider coming to you because you had fallen out.”

  “But now you have come to me. With what in mind?”

  “I wish to protect my father from a further attempt on his life. Each of the last two could easily have succeeded.”

  “And you wish the War Office to give him protection? I’m afraid that is not possible, Miss Townsend. Your father did not quarrel with me, he quarrelled with our superiors; they regard what he said in court as a betrayal of his oath of secrecy, and very nearly treason. There is no possibility of them agreeing to help him.”

  “Even if they know that he is in this position because of the work he did for them? And that he has spilt a lot of blood, his blood, on their behalf?”

  “I’m afraid these are occupational hazards for a man like Berkeley Townsend.”

  “I see. Then I have wasted my time in coming to you.”

  Shrimpton stroked his chin as he looked at her. Here we go again, she thought.

  “I wouldn’t necessarily call it a waste of time,” he said. “I have explained that there is no point in looking to the War Office for help. But it may be possible to do something privately.”

  “How privately?”

  “I have certain officers who work undercover and who might be persuaded to help your father.”

  “I must tell you, General, that I have no money to pay them with. Nor does my father.”

  “I am sure that you have other assets you can realise.”

  Anna met his gaze. “My father always told me that British officers were usually gentlemen. Sadly, as I grow older, I am beginning to understand that he was wrong about several things.”

  Shrimpton’s smile was cold. “Both your father and I, and yourself, Miss Townsend, have been forced to live in the real world. So please, none of your pseudo-morality. How many men would you estimate you have serviced since the age of twelve?”

  “I would say perhaps half a dozen.”

  “Oh, come now.”

  “You asked me how many men. If your question had been how many filthy perverts, I would have said several hundred. Are you seeking to make it several hundred and one?”

  His head came up and he stared at her, his eyes glittering. “A chip off the old block,” he remarked. “But not a chip which is going to cause me the slightest concern, Miss Townsend. You are a most desirable young woman. You are also a whore and the daughter of the man I most dislike in this entire country. You have come to ask me for help in preserving his miserable life. As far as I am concerned, it is a simple business transaction in which, for all your beauty, I cannot be sure I will be getting a good bargain. However, I will take the risk, while you are certain to make a profit. In exchange for the use of your body for one night, tonight, I will provide, free of charge, a bodyguard for your father. I would say you will be making far more of a profit than I.”

  Anna stared at him. “I would not have believed it possible. You are a general in the British army.”

  “Generals are also men. Kindly make up your mind. I am a busy man.”

  Ann
a continued to stare at him while her brain raced. He had been her very last resort; for all her determined talk she knew that there was no hope of Martina and herself going to Germany and discovering the man Himmler, or taking on his party. Who would look after Papa and Howard while they were away?

  Equally she knew that the pair of them had little hope of defending the farmhouse against a determined assassin. She and Papa, backed up by Savos and Martina, had been unable to do that.

  “How do I know you will carry out your side of the bargain?”

  Another cold smile. “You have the word of an officer and a gentleman. As I take it that you are agreeing to my proposal, I will tell you what you must do. I have a flat in Mayfair.” He pulled a block of paper towards him, wrote rapidly, tore off the sheet and slid it across the desk. “There is the address. Go there at six o’clock. Ring the bell and give the woman who answers that piece of paper. She will admit you and make you comfortable; I will join you shortly afterwards.”

  Anna folded the paper into her handbag; as she did so, her fingers touched the cold steel of her revolver. He deserved nothing better. But he might be Papa’s salvation. She stood up.

  “Six o’clock,” he said. “And please, I am anticipating something better than a sack of potatoes.”

  “You shall have it,” she promised.

  *

  It was four o’clock; she had only two hours to wait. Presumably it would be a long night but at least she would be in bed; she did not have sufficient money for an hotel room. And tomorrow she would be back in the farmhouse.

  There would be questions, of course. Harry had got into the habit of driving out to the farm every evening. He would be angry and alarmed when she did not turn up, and he was already in a state of nerves over her meeting with his parents, which was to take place tomorrow evening. How nice it would be to tell him the truth. But as she had said to Martina, he lived in a different world to them. His concepts of honour and ethics, those of the average well-bred Englishman, centred on words like chastity and notions like obedience to the law. He would not understand and she didn’t think he ever would.

  She spent the time window-shopping, attracting glances of envy and admiration from women and men. This was not the first time she had been to London but it was the first time she had been in the city entirely on her own, and she found it fascinating, so much so that she lost track of time and recalled herself only at half past five when it was time to hurry towards the address in Mayfair. She was panting by the time she got there, and as it was still only five to the hour she gave herself five minutes to catch her breath before ringing the bell against the name Shrimpton. Fortunately, the street was deserted and she did not have to endure any more stares.

  “I am opening the door,” a woman’s voice said.

  Anna frowned. There was something . . . but the door was open. She stepped into a hall. The flat was up two flights of stairs. She climbed these slowly, keeping her breathing under control. It had to be coincidence, of course. Or her imagination running away with her. But Shrimpton’s housekeeper or tame assassin would not know who his latest acquisition was – she would certainly not have given her employer any details of her visit to Northampton. Anna recalled what her father had told her: the general never wanted to know exactly how his orders were carried out, only that they had been. He had assumed Berkeley was dead and had been surprised at learning that he wasn’t.

  What have I done? she asked herself. Not only had she told Shrimpton that her father was alive, she had actually invited him to place one of his men in the farmhouse so that he could complete the job! She almost turned and ran down the stairs and all the way to the railway station, and thence home to warn Martina.

  What good would that do? If she had already realised that she and Martina had very little hope of taking on the Nazis, what hope did they have of resisting the Nazis and the War Office? But this one threat could be ended now, and she owed it to Papa’s poor, bullet-ridden, paralysed body. She had no doubt she could do it, no feeling of uncertainty as to right or wrong. These people were killers. They needed to be taught that there were others in the world more deadly even than they.

  She rang the flat bell, and the door was opened. “You have something for me?” the woman asked.

  “A piece of paper,” Anna told her.

  The woman raised her head in surprised alarm, recognising her immediately. “You!” she gasped, and tried to close the door.

  Anna did not recognise her at all without the uniform and the glasses and with her mousy hair loose and straggly. But the voice was unmistakable.

  “Me,” she said, placing her left hand on the woman’s chest and pushing her back across a small hallway and against an inner door. Anna kicked the outer door closed behind her and unclipped her handbag. “In there,” she said.

  The woman opened the door and backed into a small lounge. “I did what I was told to do,” she said, her voice high.

  “And I do what I have to do,” Anna said, and shot her in the chest, firing through the handbag so that the noise would be muffled.

  *

  “I have Miss Townsend on the line, Mr Druce,” Miss Carlisle said.

  “Oh, thank God for that. Do forgive me, Mr Harman,” Druce said to the client on the far side of his desk. “A domestic crisis. Anna?” he said into the phone. “Where in the name of God are you?”

  “I am in Roade.”

  This was a village on the railway line a few miles south of Northampton.

  Druce looked at his watch; it was just after eleven in the morning. “What on earth are you doing there? Where were you last night?”

  “I’ll explain when I see you. Would you come down and pick me up?”

  “Now?”

  “That would be very nice. I am in a hurry to get home.”

  “Why couldn’t you take the train into Northampton?”

  “I said, I’ll explain when I see you. Please hurry. I’ll be waiting for you in the station yard.”

  She hung up.

  Druce regarded the phone for several seconds before replacing the receiver. Then he gave his client a winning smile. “I do apologise,” he said, “but it seems my fiancée has had some kind of accident.”

  “Then you must go to her at once,” the farmer said. “My business can wait.”

  “That’s very kind of you. Perhaps tomorrow?”

  “I’ll make another appointment with your secretary.”

  “Thank you.” Druce grabbed his hat and hurried from the office. “Will you tell Mr Walton I have been called out on urgent business,” he told Miss Carlisle.

  She goggled after him, reflecting that since he had got involved with these Townsend people Mr Druce had been behaving very oddly.

  Druce got into his car and took the road south. His head was spinning, but then it had been spinning for the last twelve hours.

  When he had driven out to the farm last evening, he had been dismayed to find Anna not there and alarmed when Martina had told him she had gone to London. On business of which he, as her lawyer, her advisor, her fiancé and virtually her guardian until Berkeley was back on his feet, had known nothing.

  “She will be here on the last train,” Martina had explained.

  “But how did she get into Northampton?”

  “She took Hannibal and the trap.”

  His concern had grown when the time for the last train had come and gone, and she had not returned. Martina had offered him a bed for the night but he had declined and returned to Northampton. At the station he had found the horse, which Anna had left in the care of the stationmaster and which had spent a pleasant day grazing in that worthy’s paddock.

  “Weren’t you expecting her back this evening?” he had asked.

  “The young lady did say she might be delayed,” the stationmaster had said.

  Druce had spent a sleepless night. At first he had been inclined to call the police but after all that had happened he had no doubt that Anna could take care of hers
elf. He had also forgotten to ask Martina if Anna had taken her gun and could only pray that she had not.

  Roade was a sleepy little town, and in the middle of the morning the station yard was empty. Save for a woman, waiting by the steps to the platform. Druce braked and peered at her uncertainly. She wore a dress he had never seen before with a hat he had never seen before either and her hair was a brilliant yellow; she carried a large paper shopping bag together with her handbag.

  “You made good time,” she said, sitting beside him and tossing her bags into the back seat.

  “Anna?”

  “Who were you expecting? Please take me home.”

  Druce engaged gear and drove out of the yard. Once they were clear of the houses, Anna took off her hat and the wig beneath and threw these into the back seat as well; then she fluffed out her hair.

  “Where in the name of God have you been? Martina said something about London. And why are you wearing that peculiar disguise?”

  “I didn’t wish to be recognised.”

  “Why? What were you doing in London?”

  “I was tracking Papa’s assassin.”

  “You . . . my God!”

  “Do keep your eyes on the road, Harry. We don’t want to have an accident. Especially now.”

  Druce attempted to concentrate, but it was very difficult.

  “Your father’s would-be assassin was a German agent.”

  “No, she wasn’t. We were meant to think she was. She was actually English, even if she did have an accent. Actually, I think the accent was assumed, as part of her disguise, again to make us think she was foreign.”

  “And you say you tracked her down? Just like that?”

  “I had a lead and I followed it, and it turned out to be right.”

  “And you handed her over to the police?”

  “No. That wouldn’t have done any good. She was working for the British government.”

  “The government? I can’t believe that.”

  “They regarded Papa as a traitor, because of the evidence he gave in court for the Karlovy woman. They didn’t dare do anything about it publicly so they sent along an executioner, setting it up for the whole world to think it was another German paid assassin.”