Frankie's Letter

by Dolores Gordon-Smith

  ‘So I heard,’ said Kevin. He had an educated voice and a thin, ascetic face. ‘Well, Mr Jones? Has Berlin agreed at long last?’

  ‘Do we get the money?’ asked Joseph.

  ‘You will get a credit note for six thousand pounds to be spent on arms in Germany,’ said Anthony. ‘I trust you are aware of the generosity of the government in providing such a sum.’ Kevin and Joseph looked at each other with a quick nod of approval. ‘However, today’s scheme will not be carried out.’

  Joseph, who had been rolling a cigarette, looked at him in consternation. ‘Why the hell not? We can get the King! D’you not realize that? Why, Veronica herself came up with the plan.’ With a shock Anthony realized he meant Veronica O’Bryan. ‘She worked out how we could do it. We’ve been planning this for months.’

  ‘It’s the Kaiser, isn’t it?’ said Kevin bitterly. ‘He doesn’t want to kill his cousin.’

  Anthony nodded.

  ‘But his cousin is the King,’ said Joseph. ‘Doesn’t he see? The King is the heart of England. We kill him and we’ll strike a blow they’ll never recover from. By Christ, I’m damned if I’m having some bloody German turn round and tell us we can’t do it. We’re the men on the ground. We know what should be done.’

  ‘Be quiet, Joseph,’ said Kevin. ‘These walls are like paper.’ Joseph glared at him in frustration. ‘However,’ continued Kevin, ‘I don’t think Mr Jones here quite appreciates what’s been done. This is a patriotic scheme that will benefit Ireland and Germany.’ He drew an automatic pistol from his pocket and put it on the table. ‘Once the plan has been carried out, then the Kaiser will see its merits.’

  Anthony had been afraid of this. ‘You will lose the friendship of Germany,’ he said stiffly. Kevin’s hand twitched towards the pistol. ‘There are matters at stake you cannot grasp. Take the money and forget your ideas. The Kaiser is insistent on this.’

  Kevin picked up the pistol. ‘And what if we’d never got the message from the Kaiser?’ he said softly, pointing the pistol at Anthony. ‘I’m an Irishman. I don’t care who the Kaiser’s relations are. Nobody knows you’re here. I can explain the shot.’ He gave a jerk of his head towards the factory. ‘Living next to that thing, people are used to noise. I think, Mr Jones, it might be better if you’d never come.’

  Anthony looked at him. Kevin had the bright, cold eyes of a fanatic. The pistol was rock-solid. The muscles in Kevin’s hand tightened and Anthony knew he was a breath away from death.

  He allowed himself to look very scared. Oddly enough, it really was all pretence. His mind was working so quickly he didn’t have time to be frightened. He wanted to get to the bomb and at least attempt to disarm it.

  ‘Wait! Perhaps if you can show me what you have in mind, how the device will work, I can argue for you in Berlin.’ The muscles of Kevin’s hand relaxed. ‘It is true what you say. After the King is dead, perhaps, it will be different. I agree with you. It will be a mortal blow for England. When the Kaiser sees that, he will change his mind – if you let me argue for you,’ he added.

  Kevin froze, studying Anthony’s face. Then he laughed and put the pistol back in his pocket. ‘It seems we have an agreement, Mr Jones. Luckily for you.’

  Anthony took a deep breath. ‘You will show me the arrangements? You will do more than merely throw a bomb, yes?’

  ‘I think,’ said Kevin, ‘you’d better come with me, Mr Jones.’

  He opened the kitchen cupboard, took out a powerful electric torch, then walked across the kitchen and opened a door.

  The opening yawned blackly. It was the cellar. ‘I think you can go first, Mr Jones,’ said Kevin. ‘Joe, get a cup of tea brewed, will you? I’m parched.’

  The cellar steps, which were very steep and stank of damp, led to a tiny clay-walled room, glistening with slug trails. A small circle of light rimmed the coal-hole on the street above. There was a heap of earth piled up in the cellar. They’ve dug a tunnel, Anthony thought with sudden understanding.

  ‘Nice, isn’t it?’ said Kevin ironically, flashing his torch round the cellar. ‘This cellar, Mr Jones, is why we chose this house.’

  He flashed his torch into the corner, showing a roughly dug hole. It was about six feet deep with a wooden ladder propped against the side. ‘Now, I’ll go first, but don’t try anything. Down we go, Mr Jones.’ Anthony could hear the amusement in his voice. ‘I’m afraid you’re going to get your smart clothes dirty, but it can’t be helped.’

  The hole opened out onto a narrow tunnel, about three feet wide. Following Kevin and the beam of light, Anthony crawled on his hands and knees through the passage.

  ‘We’re under the factory wall,’ explained Kevin shortly. ‘We’ll come to another ladder in a minute. I’ll go up first. You’ll have to wait a moment while I see it’s all right.’

  He scrambled up the ladder, leaving Anthony in the tunnel. There was a pause and the creaking sound of wood. A gloomy light shone into the hole. Kevin looked down at him. ‘Come on!’

  They came out at the back of a warehouse. A wooden pallet that had covered the entrance was pushed to one side.

  Anthony stretched, glad to be out of the cramped tunnel. Wooden boxes and piles of shells stood heaped up in a huge, silent room. He looked around with apparent admiration. ‘This is clever, yes?’ he said quietly.

  Kevin put his mouth near Anthony’s ear. ‘One of the warehouse men is one of ours. The other’s an old dodderer and doesn’t know anything about it. Altogether, we’ve got three lads who work here.’

  His teeth showed white in a wolfish grin. ‘Funnily enough, they’re all going to be off sick today. Follow me, Mr Jones.’

  He led the way down a corridor formed by piles of crates, waited cautiously at the end and slipped across the gap to the next passage. ‘We have to go into the factory yard,’ he said in a low whisper. ‘Just walk as if you owned the place. There shouldn’t be anyone around at this time in the morning.’

  Looking round, he waited at the end of the passage. The great double doors of the warehouse were in front of them but, set into the wood, was a smaller wicket door. Kevin took a key from his pocket. ‘You see what it is to have friends in the right places, Mr Jones. Me, Joseph, and a couple of the lads made the final preparations last night. There was supposed to be an explosives expert coming from Germany but he never turned up.’

  Anthony recognized the description as that of Günther Hedtke and wondered what Kevin would do if he knew he was the missing expert. ‘I don’t know what happened to him. I don’t care, either. Your lot should learn to trust us more, Mr Jones. We don’t need anyone to tell us how to do our job.’

  He walked across to the wicket door and turned the key in the lock. After a pause to make sure there was no one about, he jerked his head at Anthony to come on.

  The cobbled yard of the factory was set between the three-storey high brick walls of the factory, with its rows of long black windows. Dominating everything was the chimney, rising high from the engine shed. Before them were the closed factory gates and beyond, Anthony could hear the early-morning sounds as London stirred into life.

  Kevin walked quickly up the yard, away from the gates. ‘There’s some new buildings beyond the yard.’ He grinned again. ‘That’s what King George and his wife are coming to see. There’s going to be a big fuss, with flags waved and a band playing and everything just fit for a king. He’s got a beautiful silver trowel, ready inscribed with the date, to lay the foundation stone. That trowel will be the last thing he touches.’

  They went up the yard between the main buildings. The land opened out and there, as Kevin had said, was the low brick wall of the foundations of a new factory building, looking very clean and raw. There was a wooden dais beside the wall, evidently prepared for the royal party.

  ‘Now this,’ said Kevin, ‘is where it happens.’ He stopped and pointed. ‘Tell them about this in Berlin, Mr Jones.’

  He turned and grinned at Anthony. ‘Imagination’s not any German’s s
trongpoint, but we Irish have imagination. Imagine this. A few hours from now, all the factory hands will be out to see their precious King and Queen. Don’t be sorry for them. They’re making shells to kill your lads and are as legitimate a target as any soldier in uniform. This common land we’re standing on –’ he rubbed his foot in the grit – ‘will be covered with a red carpet so George won’t get his feet dirty. That dais will be covered in fancy cloth with fancy chairs and fancy bunting. The band will play, Mr Noakes, the factory owner will hand George his silver trowel and George will lay the stone for the new building.’

  ‘And then?’ asked Anthony. ‘What will happen then?’

  ‘Bang,’ said Kevin softly. ‘That foundation stone has been booby-trapped.’ He walked to the wall, resting his hand by the gap left for the stone. Where the stone was to go was a fine layer of cement. ‘Under there, under that cement, is a detonator. You can’t see the cable because I’ve covered it up with cement to the ground.’ He pointed back towards the warehouse. ‘It runs to the warehouse. It’s all buried, out of sight. I tell you, Mr Jones, this is a great device. All we had to do last night was lay the detonators and connect the bomb. It’s not a big bomb, but it’ll set off a stockpile of high explosive.’

  He laced his hands together and cracked his fingers in satisfaction. ‘They’ll hear it the other side of the Channel. Now tell me the Germans don’t need us. This took Irish brains and Irish know-how and because of us, you can strike at the very heart of England.’

  Standing in the silent factory yard, Anthony looked at the innocent gap in the wall. Kevin had told him to imagine and he could imagine only too well.

  There would be pomp and ceremony and happy faces as the workers looked at the King and Queen. The women – he knew there were many women in the factory – would be admiring the Queen’s dress and enjoying the band, glad to have this little holiday, excited to see their Queen and King. Maybe there’d be children in the crowd waving pocket-money penny flags and cheering. Outside the factory, in those mean little houses, the day would seem brighter and life that bit better because of what was happening in those few square yards so near at hand. And then . . .

  He had to disable the bomb. ‘It is impressive,’ he said. ‘Yes, you are right. You can strike where we cannot. You are sure the bomb is well-hidden? I would like to see it for myself.’

  ‘No problem about that, Mr Jones,’ said Kevin. He looked at his watch. ‘It’s twenty-five to six. I’ve got time to show you the bomb, then we’d better get going before anyone arrives. And after that, we’ll get as far away from Marriotvale as we can.’

  He led him back down the yard, through the wicket gate and into the warehouse once more, threading his way confidently through the tall corridors of crates. ‘It’s at the side of the warehouse,’ he explained, coming to a stop before a five-box high stack of crates that ran the length of the wall. ‘Now you tell me if you can see anything suspicious.’

  Anthony looked. He couldn’t.

  ‘And yet it’s in there.’ He would have said more, but, very faintly from outside, came the thrum of an engine. He looked up sharply. ‘What’s that? It sounds like a motorbike. Wait here, Mr Jones.’

  Kevin ran out of the warehouse. It was the opportunity Anthony had been waiting for. The cable was buried, he knew that, but somewhere, surely, the ground would be disturbed. The crates stood away from the wall on pallets. He squeezed into the narrow dark gap between the crates and the side of the warehouse. Bent double, he ran his hands along the earth, trying to find a space where the ground had been disturbed. Dimly he registered that the motorbike had roared up the yard outside but ignored it in his frantic search.

  The minutes ticked away. There! He’d found it! Anthony felt dizzy with relief. He took out his pocket knife and scrabbled in the earth. He heard footsteps behind him but carried on. He was too close to give up now. His hand was on the cable – and a gun barrel dug into the back of his neck.

  ‘Drop the knife, Mr Jones.’ It was Kevin.

  Anthony froze but didn’t obey. Then he was sent sprawling by a kick from Kevin’s heavy boots.

  ‘Get up and come outside. Walk backwards towards me. Yes, that’s right. We’ve got a bit of catching up to do, Mr Jones. Hands up!’

  Anthony wearily wiped the grit from his face, stood up and raised his hands. His knife gleamed on the dirt in front of him but he daren’t go for it. Dead, he was no use to anyone. Alive, he might – just might – have a chance.

  Once out of the narrow passageway, Kevin waved him back out of the warehouse into the yard. ‘Walk to the dais,’ he said grimly. ‘Don’t try anything.’

  By the dais was a motorbike, its rider clad in leather coat, helmet and goggles. ‘One of our friends arrived, Mr Jones,’ continued Kevin. ‘He had something very interesting to say about that U-boat you arrived on last night. Apparently it was captured by the British, which leaves me asking an obvious question. Who the hell are you?’

  Anthony didn’t answer. There didn’t seem much point.

  As they approached the motorbike, the rider dismounted and raised his goggles. It was Bertram Farlow.

  Anthony stared at him. Bertram Farlow? As he thought of how Sir Charles trusted him, of the information Farlow must have given the enemy, he felt sick.

  ‘Do you know who this is?’ demanded Kevin.

  Farlow nodded with grim satisfaction. His air of beneficence, like an unworldly vicar or a philosophical cabinet minister, had completely vanished. ‘You’ve caught the big one.’ He looked at Anthony with pure hatred. ‘This is Anthony Brooke.’ He ground out the name.

  Kevin gave a strangled hiss.

  ‘Why are you doing this?’ asked Anthony, stunned. ‘Why, Farlow?’

  Kevin answered for him. ‘Money. That’s it, isn’t it, Farlow?’

  ‘And power,’ said Farlow softly. ‘You don’t know about that, do you, Brooke? You don’t know what it’s like to be cheated of your rightful place. You’ve always had it easy. You despised me, didn’t you? I didn’t go to the right school. I didn’t have the right relations. I’ve been kept down all my life and at long last I’ve got the chance to get back.’

  ‘You’re nothing,’ said Anthony. ‘You’re just an errand boy.’

  Farlow’s eyes gleamed in fury. ‘Nothing? You’re wrong, Brooke. I knew exactly where our friends over the water could find Cavanaugh. And I found you. You’re a bloody spy and you’re going to suffer.’

  ‘Never mind that,’ interrupted Kevin. ‘We’ll deal with him later, Farlow. You can see him off, if you like.’

  Farlow smiled slowly. ‘I’ll enjoy that,’ he said softly. ‘You’ll learn what power I’ve got. You won’t die quickly, Brooke.’

  ‘Later, Farlow,’ said Kevin impatiently. ‘You’ll have your chance later. You say they’re going to evacuate the area?’

  Anthony sprang.

  The move was so unexpected, it sent Farlow sprawling off his bike. The heavy machine fell on them as Kevin fired a stream of bullets from the automatic.

  Bullets thudded into the petrol tank. Petrol jetted out, then the tank exploded in a deafening whoosh of flame and chunks of flying metal.

  Anthony felt Farlow’s fist slam into the side of his head, then Farlow’s neck jerked back and his body went limp. One of Kevin’s bullets had gone home. Anthony rolled to one side as Kevin leapt through the curtain of flames and pointed his gun. Bullets tore into the earth followed by a series of useless clicks. The gun was empty. Kevin flung away the gun and hurled himself forward towards the gap in the bricks.

  ‘Don’t be a fool!’ yelled Anthony. ‘You’ll kill us all!’ His head still singing with Farlow’s blow, Anthony lunged after him, catching his legs.

  Kevin kicked out, sending Anthony twisting to one side, but Anthony hung on grimly, desperately trying to stop him reaching the detonator.

  Kevin clawed his way across the wooden floor of the dais and kicked out once more. This time, his heavy boot caught Anthony on the chin, se
nding him reeling away.

  With a scream of triumph, Kevin staggered the last couple of feet. There was a fusillade of sharp cracks and he gazed down in absolute shock at the blood on his chest. With his last ounce of strength he reached forward, clutching at the gap in the wall as he fell. Anthony flinched away as Kevin thudded down on the detonators.

  Nothing happened.

  It suddenly seemed very, very quiet. The motorbike still burned in an acrid, evil-smelling cloud of black smoke. Beside it, lay Farlow’s twisted body and, on the dais, sprawled Kevin, his eyes open wide in death, staring at the hand draped across the concrete crust of the detonators.

  ‘Brooke!’ He looked up as his name was called. From one of the upstairs open windows of the factory, Sir Charles leaned out and waved. ‘I’ll be down in a minute.’

  Anthony slumped onto the dais and waited. Sir Charles, accompanied by an infantry captain, came out into the yard at the head of a party of soldiers, complete with rifles. ‘Brilliant work, Brooke,’ he said, enthusiastically shaking Anthony’s hand.

  Anthony wearily stood up and ran a hand round his tender jaw, sore from the kick he’d received. ‘Who killed him?’ he asked, looking at Kevin’s body.

  The captain stepped forward. ‘We all shot at him, sir. I suppose we’re all responsible.’

  Anthony nodded. ‘He’s probably better off dead. There’s another man back at the house. You’d better arrest him.’

  ‘We’ve done that,’ said Sir Charles. ‘As soon as we saw you and your pal safely in the factory yard, we collected Master Joseph. He’s wanted for a string of murders in Ireland.’

  Anthony sat back against the wooden support of the dais. ‘I thought we’d had it at the end,’ he said, lighting a cigarette. ‘I know we had a plan, but I didn’t know it had come off.’

  Sir Charles nodded. ‘You needn’t have worried. We were watching the whole time. We saw you point out where the cable and the detonator were hidden and, as soon as you and your Irish friend went back into the warehouse, Captain Black here saw to it, didn’t you, Captain?’