Mr. Calder & Mr. Behrens

by Michael Gilbert

“Your friend, Captain Rowlandson.”

  “Good.”

  “And Mrs. Orbiston.”

  “Oh, God!”

  “You’ll have to be nice to her. She’s on the committee of the Kennel Club. We can’t have her blackballing Sultan when he comes up.”

  Hearing his name, the dog got up from the rug in front of the fire and walked across to Lady Lefroy. He was nine months old, a puppy no longer, but a young dog with plenty of growth to come in his long springy body and barrel chest. A Persian deerhound of royal parentage, he wore the tuft of hair on the top of his head like a coronet. His eyes, which had been light yellow at birth, were deepening now into amber. His nose was blue-black, his skin the colour of honey.

  Lady Lefroy tickled the top of his head and said, “Sorry, no scraps for you.” And to her husband, “I forgot. There’s one more. Mr. Behrens.”

  “Who’s he?”

  “You ought to know. You invited him.”

  “Oh, the bee chap. Yes. I met him at my club. He’s written a book about them. Knows a lot about mediaeval armour, too.”

  “He can go for nice long walks with Mrs. Orbiston and talk to her about hives and helmets.”

  Admiral Lefroy abandoned the egg in disgust, and started on the toast and marmalade. He said, “What are you planning to do up in town?”

  “Shopping, and having my hair done.”

  “By—what’s the fellow’s name—Michael?”

  “Who else? And what are you snorting about?”

  “You know damned well what I’m snorting about.”

  “Now, Alaric . . . Michael is adorable. The things he says! Do you know what he told Lady Skeffington last week?”

  “I’m not the least interested in what he told Lady Skeffington.”

  The beauty salon was in two sections. The front had plush settees, low tables covered with glossy magazines, a thick carpet, and indirect lighting. At the back was a row of cubicles, with plain white wooden doors. On each door was the word Michael’s in letters of brass script, and under each word the stylised painting of a different flower.

  From behind the cubicles the snipping of scissors, the sudden gushing of water as a spray was turned on, the humming of a hair dryer. From in front, the hum of conversation. Mrs. Hetherington, county to the oblong ends of her brown shoes, was saying to Lady Lefroy, “So she said, when they have the next Cabinet reshuffle, Tom’s been promised the Navy. Michael said – with a perfectly straight face – ‘What’ll he do with it when he gets it? Play with it in his bath?’”

  A Mrs. Toop, who was nobody in particular, and knew it, giggled sycophantically. Lady Lefroy, who had heard the story before, said, “Oh. What did she say?”

  “Of course she pretended to be furious. I mean, Michael doesn’t bother to be rude to you unless your husband’s someone.”

  How Mrs. Toop wished that Michael would be rude to her!

  “He goes too far sometimes,” said Lady Lefroy. “Did you hear what he said to Lady Skeffington?”

  “No. Tell, tell.”

  “Well, you know how she’s always carrying on about her husband’s polo. What the Duke said to him and what he said to the Duke—”

  “Hold it,” said Mrs. Hetherington regretfully.

  The door with a chrysanthemum on it opened and Michael came out. He held the door open for Lady Skeffington, gave her a gentle pat on the back as she went past, and said, “There now, Lady S. You look a proper little tart. I’ope your’usband likes it.”

  “He’ll hate it,” said Lady Skeffington complacently.

  “It’ll keep his mind off things. You ought to see the cartoon in the Mirror.”

  “I never read the Mirror.”

  “You don’t know what you’re missing. They’ve got him to the life. Quintin as the lion, and ‘im as the unicorn.”

  It was noticeable that Michael dealt with his aitches quite arbitrarily, sometimes dropping them, sometimes not. He helped Lady Skeffington into her coat, showed her out, and came back, casting an eye over the waiting victims.

  “Come on Lady L.,” he said, “I’ll wash your hair for you.”

  Mrs. Hetherington said, “What about me? I was next.”

  “Bert can take care of you,” said Michael. “He’ll be through in Delphinium in ‘alf a mo’.”

  “It’s sheer favouritism.”

  “You know what Mr. Asquith said. ‘Favouritism’s the secret of efficiency.’”

  “It wasn’t Asquith,” said Mrs. Hetherington coldly. “It was Lord Fisher.”

  “Marcia Lefroy,” said Mr. Fortescue, “is not English at all, although to hear her speak you would never guess it. She’s a French Lebanese girl, of good family.” Mr. Fortescue paused, as though the next words he had to speak were precious, and needed to be weighed out very carefully. “She had been a trained Communist agent since she was sixteen.”

  The Under-Secretary of State stared at him in blank disbelief. He said, “Really, Fortescue. This sounds like something Security Executive has dreamed up. I’ve met Lady Lefroy a dozen times. She’s an absolutely charming woman.”

  “She was trained to be charming. In fact, her earliest assignment was to charm Lefroy. He was only a captain then, in command of our Eastern Mediterranean cruiser detachment. Her instructions were to seduce him. However, it served the purpose of her employers equally well when he carried her off and married her.”

  “This is quite fantastic. Who started this—this canard?”

  “It was started by a disgruntled housemaid. She told us that once, when clearing away the coffee cups, she distinctly heard Admiral Lefroy telling his wife something – she was vague what it was but she was sure it was secret.”

  The Under-Secretary laughed. “And you believed that sort of evidence?”

  “On the contrary, we put her down as a bad and spiteful witness. The information was pigeon-holed. However, three months ago, when Heinrich Woolf defected to us – you remember—”

  “Of course.”

  “One of the things he told us was that details of our agents in Eastern bloc countries were regularly reaching Moscow via Warsaw. They were known to be coming from the foreign-born wife of a senior naval officer with a post in Intelligence. The Lefroys filled the bill exactly. He’s the naval representative on the Joint Staffs Intelligence Committee.

  “We still didn’t believe it, but we had Lady Lefroy watched. And noticed that she had her hair – washed and set, I believe, is the right expression – by a fashionable hairdresser who calls himself Michael, speaks with a strong Cockney accent, was born in Lithuania, and has an occasional and inconspicuous rendezvous on Parliament Hill Fields with a Major Shollitov, who drives the Polish ambassador’s spare car.”

  The Under-Secretary said, “Good God!” and then, “I hope you realise that this is a case where we can’t afford – can’t possibly afford – to make any mistake.”

  “I can see that it would arouse considerable comment.”

  “Comment! God in heaven, man, it’s dynamite. And if it went off the wrong way it could—well it could blow quite a lot of people out of office.”

  Mr. Fortescue said in his gentlest voice, “I had not really considered the political angles. My objective is to stop it. You heard they picked up Rufus Oldroyd—”

  “Was that—?”

  “I imagine so. Admiral Lefroy knew all about Oldroyd. A single incautious word to his wife. The mention of a name even—”

  “Yes. I can see that.”

  “It must be stopped.” Mr. Fortescue’s eyes were as bleak and grey as the seas which washed his native Hebrides.

  The Under-Secretary shifted uncomfortably in his padded chair. He was a Wykehamist with a first-class degree. The fact that he was a chess player had apparently suggested to his masters that he might have an aptitude for Intelligence matters. It had not proved a happy choice. He disliked Intelligence work, its operations, its operators, and all its implications. It was only the accident of the particular seat he occupied at the F
oreign Office which had forced him to have anything to do with it.

  He said, “Alaric Lefroy’s a public hero. Has been ever since he got his VC on the Russian convoy. He’s a friend of royalty. He could hardly be removed from the committee without public explanation. And suppose we were forced – by questions in the House – to give an explanation. Could we prove it?”

  “At the moment, almost certainly not.”

  “Then couldn’t we pull this fellow Michael in?”

  “It would be ineffective. Marcia Lefroy is a professional. She’d lie low for a bit. Then she’d open up a new channel of communication – possibly one we didn’t know about. Then we should be worse off.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” said the Under-Secretary unhappily. “What are we going to do about it?”

  “I had worked out a tentative plan – I could explain the details if you wished—”

  The Under-Secretary said hastily that he had no desire to hear the details. He felt confident that the matter could be left entirely in Mr. Fortescue’s hands.

  Michael was uneasy. The causes of his uneasiness were trivial, but they were cumulative. There had been the trouble with the lock on the front door of his flat. The locksmith who had removed and replaced it had found the tip of a key broken off in the mechanism.

  Michael had mentioned the matter to the hall porter, and in doing so had discovered that the regular porter, with whom he was on very good terms, had been replaced by a large and surly-looking individual who had treated him in a very offhand way. And the final straw – there had been trouble with his car.

  It had been his custom to make his trips to North London in an inconspicuous little Austin runabout. This had gone in for repairs a week ago, and had been promised to him for today. When he went to get the car it was not ready. Mysterious additional faults had developed. There was nothing he could do but use his second car, the extremely conspicuous, primrose-yellow Daimler with the personal licence plate.

  This he parked, as usual, in the backyard of the Spaniards, and made his way on foot down the complex of paths which led to the open spaces of Parliament Hill Fields. It was an ideal place for a rendezvous, with an almost panoramic view of London. Major Shollitov would come from the opposite direction, leaving his car in Swains Lane, and walking up to the meeting place.

  And now, to add to, and cap, all the other doubts which had been nagging him, Major Shollitov was late. Michael, although a very minor player in the game, was sufficiently instructed to realise the significance of this. A rendezvous was always kept with scrupulous punctuality. If one party was late, it was a warning – a warning not to be disregarded. The other party took himself off, quickly and quietly.

  Michael glanced at his watch – 2:59. From the seat on which he was sitting he could command all the paths leading up from the Vale. It was one of its advantages. Thirty seconds to go. Major Shollitov was not coming.

  When a hand touched him on the shoulder Michael jumped.

  The man must have come up across the grass behind him. He was thickset, middle-aged, and nondescript. He said, “Got a match?”

  Michael’s heart resumed a more normal rhythm. He said, “Sure.”

  “Mind if I sit down? Lovely view, isn’t it?”

  Michael said, “Yes.” He wondered how soon he could move. To get straight up and walk off would look rude, and to be rude would attract attention.

  The stranger said, “I wonder if you know why they call this spot Parliament Hill Fields?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “You remember that crowd who were planning to blow up Parliament? Fifth of November, sixteen hundred and five. They’d got it all laid out, and were intending to scuttle off up north to start the revolt. And just about here was where they pulled up their horses, to have a view of the fireworks display. Dramatic, wasn’t it?”

  “Oh, very,” said Michael. Give it one more minute.

  “Only, as we know, the fireworks didn’t go off. And they left poor old Guy Fawkes behind to carry the can. Interesting, don’t you think?”

  “Oh, very.”

  “I thought you’d be interested.”

  There was something about this last statement that Michael didn’t like. He said sharply, “Why should it interest me, particularly?”

  “Well,” said the stranger, “after all it’s much the sort of position you’re in now, isn’t it?”

  The long silence that followed was broken by the distant voices of children playing, out of sight down the slope. At last Michael said, “What are you talking about?”

  “Your old pal, Major Shollitov – the one you usually meet here. He’s gone scuttling back to Warsaw, leaving you sitting here, like Guy Fawkes, waiting for the rack and thumbscrew.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Never mind about me,” said the stranger, with a sudden brutal authority. “Let’s talk about you. You’re the one who’s on the spot. You’re a messenger boy for the Commies, aren’t you? How did they rope you in? Through your old mum and dad in Lithuania? Not that it matters. They’ve finished with you now. You’re blown.”

  “You’re mad.”

  “If you think I’m mad I’d advise you to shout for help. Go on. There’s a park attendant. Give him a yell. Tell him you’re being annoyed by a lunatic.”

  Michael watched the park attendant approach them. He watched him walk away.

  The stranger inhaled the last drop of smoke from his cigarette, dropped it, and stamped on it. He said, “You’ve had an easy run, so far. Listening to high-class tittle-tattle from Lady This, whose husband’s in the Cabinet, and Mrs. That whose brother’s on the staff, and passing it on for a few pounds a time. They don’t pay much for third-class work like that. Well, that’s all over now. It’s you who’s going to do the paying and—” The stranger leaned forward until his face was a few inches from Michael’s “—it’s not going to be nice. They get rough, those Intelligence boys. They know what happens to their friends when they get caught, and they like a chance to pay a little of it back. The last one they brought in had both his legs broken. Jumping out of a car, they said—”

  “He’s yellow,” said Mr. Calder to Mr. Fortescue. “Yellow as a daffodil. By the time I’d finished he was almost crying.”

  “I’m not surprised,” said Mr. Fortescue. “Verbal bullies are often lacking in moral stamina. You were careful not to suggest any connection between him and Lady Lefroy?”

  “Very careful. I kept it quite general. Listening to indiscreet gossip was how I put it.”

  “Excellent. We must hope that he’ll act predictably.”

  It had not been an easy weekend, even for an experienced hostess like Marcia Lefroy. Captain Rowlandson and Mrs. Orbiston had not mixed well. The only real success had been Mr. Behrens, who had filled in awkward gaps in the conversation with stories about his bees.

  The final straw for Lady Lefroy was when her husband telephoned that he had to stay in London. The First Lord had called a conference for early the next day.

  Lady Lefroy pondered these things as she lay in bed. Usually she fell asleep immediately after turning off the bedside lamp. Tonight she had not done so. Like all trained and experienced agents she possessed delicate antennae on the alert for the unusual. It was most unusual for a conference to be called on a Saturday morning. If there had been a crisis of some sort, it would have been understandable. But the international scene was flat as a pancake. Why then—

  The first handful of gravel against the window jerked her back to full wakefulness. As she got out of bed Sultan growled softly. “It’s all right,” she said. She struggled into her dressing gown without turning on the light.

  She made her way downstairs into the drawing room and opened the long window giving on to the terrace. As a man slipped through she adjusted the curtains carefully and switched on a single wall light. When she saw who it was her anger exploded. “How dare you come here!”

  “I wouldn’t have come unless I had to,” said Michae
l sulkily.

  “Your instructions were clear. You were absolutely forbidden to write, telephone, or even to speak to me, except in your shop.”

  “But I’ve got to get out. They’re on to me.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “They told me.”

  “An unusual proceeding,” said Lady Lefroy coldly.

  “This man, he met me, at the rendezvous. Shollitov’s been sent home. He knew all about us.”

  ”Us?”

  “Well, about me.”

  “Did he mention my name?”

  “Not your name particularly. He accused me of picking up gossip at the salon and passing it on. He made threats. They were going to—do things to me.”

  “Have they done anything?”

  “Not yet. But they will. I tried to get through – to the emergency number.”

  “Fool. Your line will be tapped.”

  “I couldn’t, anyway. They said it had been disconnected.”

  “I see,” said Lady Lefroy. It was a few moments before she spoke again.

  “How did you come down?”

  “By car. I’m sure I wasn’t followed – I should have known at once. The roads were empty. I hid the car nearly a mile away and walked the rest of the way.”

  “You showed that much sense.” There was no point in panicking him. He was frightened enough already. “What do you want?”

  “Help. To get out.”

  “What makes you think I can help you?”

  “You know the ropes. They told me that if I ever had to clear out I was to come to you.”

  “Then,” said Lady Lefroy, “I must see what I can do.” She walked across to her desk. As she did so, the door was pushed open. Her heart missed a beat, then steadied. It was Sultan.

  “That’s very naughty of you,” she said. “I told you to stay put.”

  Sultan yawned. He wanted the man to go so that they could get back to bed.

  Lady Lefroy unlocked the desk, and then a steel-lined drawer inside. From it she took a bulky packet which she weighed thoughtfully in her hand. She said, “You see this. It was left with me against such a contingency. But before I give it to you I must have your promise to use it exactly in the way I tell you.”