My eyes searched the room and came to rest on a little tallboy standing behind the door. More drawers to search. I flung myself into the task of searching them. More papers, books full of notes, receipts, some pages of the MS of a book on military tactics with innumerable illustrations of imaginary battles to amplify the arguments, a jumble of cigarettes, cards, old pipes, and the other odds and ends that inevitably sprinkle the drawers in a bachelor’s rooms.
At length I stood up. The floor about me was littered with papers and books, tossed on to it in my frenzy to do the impossible and examine everything in a few minutes. I gazed round, hot and frustrated. Where else might I find anything? The bookcase! One by one I pulled the books out and tossed them on to the floor, after first holding them up by their covers so that anything slipped between their pages would fall out. By this method I gleaned a few letters and odd pieces of paper with notes on them or the solution of mathematical problems.
When the bookcase was empty I straightened my aching back. Nothing! What about the bedroom? Perhaps the suits in the wardrobe would yield something. It was a forlorn hope. I had started across the room when I suddenly saw the wallet. It was lying on the mantelpiece, perfectly obvious, even at a casual glance. It seemed incredible that I could have spent nearly twenty minutes in that room and not have noticed it. I pounced on it eagerly. Two pound notes, stamps, several visiting-cards and a photograph. Idly I glanced at the last. It was faded and torn at the edges through constant friction against the leather of the wallet. It showed a short, well-built man with a long head, full lips and rather prominent nose. It was an intelligent face, the prominent jaw and alert-seeming eyes suggesting a powerful personality. It was not a face that was easy to forget. I felt a slight tremor inside me. This was Vayle. On his arm was a dark, vivacious-looking girl, her features and figure tending to plumpness. She seemed vaguely familiar. I turned the snap over. A faded rubber stamp on the back showed unmistakable German lettering. I made out the word “Berlin”.
I was just on the point of returning it to the wallet when something in my brain clicked. Quickly I turned it over and gazed once more at the photograph itself. And then I knew I was right. The girl was Elaine. She was a little thinner now, a little less round in the face. It was a younger, more naturally carefree Elaine—or else it was very like her. I turned it over again and looked at the stamp. The letters “1934” were just visible above the Berlin. In 1934 Vayle was in Berlin with Elaine. It was an important link.
And at that moment I heard the jingle of a key in the front door. I looked wildly round. There was no possible place to hide. The door opened and shut and footsteps sounded in the passage whilst I stood there petrified. Then in frantic haste I slipped the photo into my trouser pocket, and tossed the wallet back on to the mantelpiece. The next moment the door had opened and Vayle stood there gazing at me and at the wreckage of his sitting-room.
I must have looked a fool, standing there with my mouth agape in the midst of that litter. A sudden cloud of anger showed in his face, flushing his cheeks. But his eyes, grey eyes that matched his iron-grey hair, remained detached and alert. The storm of anger passed. He came forward into the room. “It appears I have a visitor,” he said. “Perhaps you would introduce yourself.” He went over to the mantelpiece and took a cigarette from a glass cigarette box. He lit it with a lighter.
My confusion subsided. But my fear mounted. His manner was so easy and pleasant, and his eyes, that watched me all the time, were so hard. I knew I was not equal to dealing with a man of this calibre. “I think you have heard of me,” I said. “My name is Hanson.” I tried desperately to match his ease of manner, but I was conscious of the tremor in my voice as I spoke.
“Ah, yes,” he said. “I remember now. A gunner.” But there was no flicker of interest or recognition in his eyes. They remained unchanged—cold and watchful. Instinctively I felt that he had known who I was the moment he had opened the door. He drew slowly at his cigarette. He said nothing, but he watched me closely. I couldn’t help it—I lowered my eyes before his gaze. And as soon as I had done so I shifted my feet and did not know where to look or what to do with my hands. I felt such a fool caught there in the act of burgling his flat. I was worried, too, about what action he was going to take. Here was his chance to get me away from the ’drome. My only hope was that he would consider that too great a risk. If he had me arrested it would mean a court-martial. And at a court-martial I would be able to press home my reasons for entering his flat. They would have no grounds for disbelieving me, since I could show that I was not short of money, and my editor would back me. And there was that business of framing me with the diagram and arranging for me to be searched. That could be used too. Pity I had burned the diagram. But Vayle didn’t know that.
I plucked up courage at the realisation that the position was not entirely to my disadvantage. Moreover, it seemed to offer the last final proof—for there was still a little bug of doubt lurking in the far cornel of my mind. If Vayle had me arrested, that doubt would be very gravely strengthened. But if he didn’t, I should know for certain. It would mean that he dared not take the risk.
I looked at him. He was still watching me, leaning on his elbow against the mantelpiece. “Well?” I said.
“Well?” he countered. And then added: “Suppose you explain what this is all about?” A slight movement of the eyes indicated the litter of books and papers that covered the floor.
I said: “I think you know the explanation.”
He appeared to hesitate. Then he nodded slowly. “Yes, perhaps I do. I heard about the telegram you tried to send to your newspaper. I wanted to talk it over with you there and then. But Wing-Commander Winton wouldn’t hear of it. He said the matter must be left to your own officer. I see I should have insisted. It would have saved this—” he paused to choose his word—“this sacking of my rooms.”
“You didn’t by any chance ask for me to be transferred immediately to another unit?” I suggested.
“No,” he said, and he sounded sincere. He indicated one of the big easy-chairs by the fire. “Sit down and we’ll talk this thing over.” His voice was quiet, yet there was a firmness about it. It was a voice to be obeyed.
But I stood my ground. “I prefer to stand,” I said. I was desperately in need of all the confidence I could muster, and I knew how small it would make me feel to sit there with him standing and talking down to me.
He shrugged his shoulders. “As you please,” he said. “First, perhaps, it would be as well for me to mention that it is in my power to have you arrested with very unpleasant results to yourself.”
“I don’t think you will do that,” I said. “You have too much at stake to take a risk of that sort.”
“Oh!” His thick eyebrows went up. For a second I sensed that I had him at a disadvantage. He wasn’t sure of something. “That brings us to the point I want to discuss with you. Perhaps you would explain just why you suspect me of being a Nazi agent?”
“How did you know I suspected you of being a Nazi agent?” The question came pat from my lips almost before I knew I had spoken. “In my wire I only asked for information about you.”
“My dear boy, the C.O. told me all about the whole wretched business.” His voice sounded patient.
“Then you know why I suspect you.”
“I know what you told Wing-Commander Winton. I want you to tell me, so that we can discuss the points at issue. It seems to me,” he added, “that it is much better to thrash this matter out. Having met you and knowing something of your background, I am not fool enough to doubt the integrity of your actions. It wouldn’t give me any satisfaction to have you arrested, knowing the reason you have broken into my rooms.” He sank down into the armchair behind him and waved me to the one on the other side of the hearth. “Now,” he said, as I sat down, “what exactly is the trouble?”
I hesitated. I couldn’t very well sit there dumb and say, “I won’t tell you.” It would be too childish. Besides, the man ha
d a right to know why I suspected him and I couldn’t see that it would do any harm. So I told him about the way in which the Jerry pilot had dried up and about the plan to immobilise the fighter ’dromes of which he had spoken. “If there is a plan,” I said, “and it’s my belief the fellow spoke the truth, it could only succeed with inside help. That help would presumably have been planted some time back, and would have achieved a sufficiently strong position to be a decisive factor.” I stopped. There seemed nothing more to say.
“And you think I am at Thorby for that purpose?” he said.
I nodded, uncomfortably aware of the persistence of his gaze.
He heaved himself up a little in his chair and threw his cigarette end into the fire. “The point for me to make is that you are suspecting me on what appear to be the most trivial grounds. I won’t press that point, however, because obviously you believe those grounds to be sufficient. No doubt your suspicions are supported in your own view by the fact that—and I presume you know this—I spent many years in Germany teaching at the Berlin University and that I came to this country in 1934.”
He paused, and since he seemed to expect it of me, I nodded.
“I think the best thing for me to do is to give you a short résumé of my life and leave you to think it over. Perhaps you don’t believe it at the moment, but we’re both aiming at the same thing. I, with my knowledge of tactics, am trying to help the staff here to carry out their duties in defending this country whilst at the same time doing what I can to help the men in their studies. My object is the same as yours in standing to your gun. And because we’re both working to one end, I’d prefer to settle this matter amicably. But, understand this,” he added, “I think my work here, which is partly in the nature of research, is important. And I don’t intend to have it nullified because of the sudden panic-prejudice against any one with any connections with Germany. If I had you arrested now, I don’t doubt you would press your accusations. You would probably be severely dealt with, but at the same time the authorities might consider it advisable at the present time to relieve me of my duties. I am too interested in my work not to fight like hell to prevent any risk of that happening.”
His gaze was fixed intently on me. Faintly in the quiet of the room I heard the sirens go. He took no notice. “As a newspaper man, I am presuming that you are intelligent,” he said. “I hope you understand my position. Now for the background. I was born in this country. My father was a naturalised German, my mother was half Irish, half Scotch. I was educated at Repton and Cambridge, and when I left the university my father, who was a business man of many interests connected with the foreign fruit trade, sent me abroad to learn the business from his various branches. Oh, I should say that in the last war he continued his business. I was still at school then. I just missed it, though I tried to volunteer. In 1927 I settled in Germany. I had found I wasn’t interested in business as such, and when a job at the Berlin University came my way I took it. I remained there over the difficult period of the slump and the Nazi landslide. I stuck it for a time, but when the pogroms started, I decided it was time to get out.” He shifted in his chair and lit another cigarette. As an afterthought, it seemed, he said, “Perhaps I should mention that my father was a Jew. Originally the name was Veilstein. But when he became naturalised he changed it to Vayle.” He blew a cloud of smoke ceilingwards. “Now is there anything you would like to ask me? I think you’ll find little difficulty in checking-up on what I’ve just told you when you have the opportunity.”
“There’s just one point,” I said. “Did you know a girl called Elaine when you were in Berlin?”
He seemed a little surprised at my question. Then suddenly his brow cleared. “Ah, Elaine Stuart, you mean? She is a Waaf.” I saw his eyes, in a quick glance, had taken in the wallet lying on the mantelpiece. “No doubt you saw a photograph of the two of us in that wallet. She was a student in Berlin in 1934. A lovely girl. I was very fond of her. Now she is here, and we are able to see something of each other again. It is one of those coincidences——” He spread his hands in a gesture that was essentially foreign.
Then suddenly a look of concern showed on his face. “You haven’t taken that photograph, have you?”
I felt a guilty flush creep into my cheeks. I wanted to say “No.” I wanted to keep that photograph, just in case. But instead I found myself saying, “I’m afraid I did. It looked as though it might be important at the time. I’m so sorry.” And I handed it back to him.
“Thank you very much.” His politeness seemed so unnecessary when it was his own property. “Is there anything else you want to know?” he asked.
At the moment my mind was a blank. I could think of nothing.
He rose to his feet. “Then perhaps you would think this matter over very carefully before doing anything further. And if you do think of any points after you’ve left here, do come and talk them over before you jump to conclusions—especially if it is likely to involve searching my rooms again in an attempt to find something that will help you.” He smiled a little ruefully and for the moment he seemed very human. “I was hoping to get some work done before going to bed, but now I must clear up after you.”
I had risen to my feet also, and he led me out to the front door. “I think you will find this an easier way out,” he said and, smiling, held out his hand.
I shook it, and the next second I found myself on the narrow stairs leading to the recreation rooms. And above me was the little green-painted front door, shut as I had seen it before. I went down and retrieved my washing things from the chair on which I had left them, and went out. It was very dark now, though searchlights illumined the sky to the south-east, and it was as though the whole fantastic escapade had never been. It seemed so unreal there in the reality of the dimly seen, familiar shapes of the aerodrome.
I looked at the luminous dial of my watch. I was surprised to find it was only just ten. So much seemed to have been crammed into that one hour. I broke into a run. Our detachment was due to take over at ten. I reached the gun pit just in time. I expected to be questioned as to why I had been so long having a bath. But no one seemed to realise I had been longer than usual. They were all busy discussing the news in orders that we were now officially allowed to fire up to 20,000 feet, a thing we had constantly been doing ever since the Blitz started.
CHAPTER SIX
THE ATTACK
WE GOT little sleep that night. They seemed to come over in an endless stream. Sometimes we could see them in the searchlights. But we got no chance to fire. No ’planes went up from Thorby. It was unpleasantly cold with a chill mist rising from the valley. We were able to sleep from one to four, whilst the other detachment was on duty. But when we came on again at four an occasional machine was still drifting home and the All Clear did not go until just before Stand-to.
I had plenty to occupy my mind during those long cold hours. Vayle’s attitude, after all, had not been unreasonable, and I was only too conscious of the fact that my suspicions, which had at one time seemed so certain, were founded on little more than conjecture. What had impressed me, I think, more than anything was the frank and easy way in which he had explained the photograph. After all, one does suddenly meet old acquaintances in strange places. There were Marion Sheldon and John Nightingale to prove that coincidences of that kind are not uncommon. Yet I refused to believe that I wasn’t on the right track. Vayle was a clever man with a hypnotic personality. And after all, he had not had me arrested. My own explanation of that was, I felt, as good as his—though I had to admit that his was reasonable enough.
It was lucky that I did have something to think about, for during our later period of duty I found myself alone on one side of the gun pit whilst the rest were congregated round Bombardier Hood on the other, talking in low tones. I did not notice this at first. When I did I wandered over to the group, thinking they were discussing something of general interest. As I came up to them I heard Hood saying, “Well, anyway, that’s what Langdon told
me.”
“I’d like to know——” Chetwood began, and then he saw me and stopped. There was an awkward silence. The group gradually broke up. I was uncomfortably aware that I was the cause.
I lit a cigarette and went out of the pit and got a deck-chair. I remembered once being sent to Coventry at my prep. school. The sensation was much the same. But lying in my deck-chair with my eyes half closed, it seemed so transient and unimportant.
Time and again I went over my encounter with Vayle and all the papers I had been through in his rooms. But I got no further forward. I felt stale. And I had a sort of feeling that things were developing. Every now and again I noticed the little group near the telephone, which had re-formed. I was conscious, too, of the fact that I was at any rate partly the subject of conversation, for occasionally they glanced over in my direction.
I wished Langdon were in charge. He would have stopped it. Instead Bombardier Hood and Chetwood were leading the discussion. Gradually the sense of being an outcast intruded on my thoughts. I began to feel uneasy, though common sense told me that it wasn’t important. It was getting on my nerves. I found myself glancing more and more often in their direction. And every time one of them seemed to be watching me with a stealthy, almost furtive glance. I had a sudden sense of being trapped—caged like a prisoner. My superiors were against me. And now, it seemed, I was becoming cut off from my own companions. Even Kan, whom I had got on with so well, was there, glancing surreptitiously in my direction when he thought I wasn’t looking.
At last I could stand it no longer. I rose to my feet and went across to them. They watched me in silence as I approached. There were Hood and Chetwood and Kan standing a little apart from the rest, Micky and a small man called Blah whose nose and dark, wavy hair betrayed his nationality. He had replaced Fuller, who was billet orderly. The undercurrent of hostility was almost defiant. Their antagonism was that of uneasy consciences. I sensed with pleasure that they were almost afraid of the fact that I was going to take the initiative.
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