by Len Deighton
‘Right,’ said Douglas quickly, fearing that Harry Woods was working himself up to a physical assault upon Huth who was now waving his stick in the air.
‘Any breach of this instruction,’ said Huth, ‘is not only a capital offence under section 134 of the Military Orders of the Commander-in-Chief Great Britain, for which the penalty is a firing squad, but also a capital offence under section 11 of your own Emergency Powers (German Occupation) Act 1941, for which they hang offenders at Wandsworth Prison.’
‘Would the shooting or the hanging come first?’ said Douglas.
‘We must always leave something for the jury to decide,’ said Huth.
Chapter Eight
Long ago Seven Dials had been a district noted for vice, crime and violence. Now it was no more than a shabby backwater of London’s theatreland. Douglas Archer got to know this region, and its inhabitants, during his time as a uniformed police Inspector, but he little thought that one day he would live here.
When Archer’s suburban house – situated between two prongs of the German panzer thrust at London – had been demolished, Mrs Sheenan had offered him and his child bed and board. Her husband, a peacetime policeman, was an army reservist. Captured at Calais the previous year he was now in a POW camp near Bremen, with no promised date of release.
The table was laid for breakfast when Douglas Archer got back to Monmouth Street and the little house over the oil-shop. Mrs Sheenan’s son, Bob, and young Douggie were being dressed in front of a blazing fire, in a room garlanded with damp laundry. Douglas recognized the striped towel that cloaked his son. It was one of the few items he’d managed to salvage from the wreckage of his house in Cheam. It brought back happy memories that he would have preferred to forget.
‘Hello, Dad! Did you work all night? Is it a murder?’
‘It’s a murder in an antique shop, isn’t it, Mr Archer?’
‘That’s right.’
‘There, told you so, Douggie,’ said young Sheenan. ‘It said so in the newspapers.’
‘Hold still,’ said Mrs Sheenan as she finished buttoning her son’s cardigan. Douglas helped her dress young Douggie. That finished, she reached for a pan on the hob. ‘You like them soft-boiled, don’t you, Mr Archer?’ She kept their relationship at that formal stage.
‘I’ve had my eggs this week, Mrs Sheenan,’ said Douglas. ‘Two of them fried on Sunday morning –remember?’
The woman scooped the boiled eggs with a bent spoon and put them into the egg cups. ‘My neighbour got these from her relatives in the country. She let me have six because I gave her your old grey sweater to unravel for the wool. All the eggs should be yours really.’
Douglas suspected that this was just a way of letting him have an unfair share of her own rations but he started to eat the egg. There was a plateful of bread on the table too, with a small cube of margarine, the printed wrapper of which declared it to be a token of friendship from German workers. What about a gesture of friendship from German farmers, said the wags who preferred butter.
‘Suppose there was a murder in a French aeroplane flying over Germany, and the murderer was Italian and the man murdered was…’ Bob thought for a moment ‘…Brazilian.’
‘Don’t speak with your mouth full,’ said his mother. On the radio the announcer played a Strauss waltz, requested by a German soldier stationed in Cardiff. Mrs Sheenan switched the music down.
‘Or Chinese!’ said Bob.
‘Don’t pester the Superintendent. You can see he’s trying to eat his breakfast in peace.’
‘That would be for the lawyers to decide,’ he told Bob. ‘I’m only a policeman. I just have to find out who did it.’
‘Mrs Sheenan is going to take us to the Science Museum on Saturday,’ said Douggie.
‘That’s very nice of her,’ said Douglas. ‘Be a good boy and do as she tells you.’
‘He always does,’ said the woman. ‘They both do; they’re both good boys.’ She looked at Douglas. ‘You look tired,’ she said.
‘I’m just getting my second wind.’
‘You’re not going back there again, without a rest?’
‘It’s a murder inquiry,’ said Douglas. ‘I must.’
‘Told you so, told you so, told you so!’ shouted Bob. ‘It’s a murder! Told you so!’
‘Quiet, boys,’ said Mrs Sheenan.
‘I have a car here,’ said Douglas. ‘I’ll pass the school – in about half an hour – will that be all right?’
‘A car. Have you been promoted?’
‘I have a new boss,’ said Douglas. ‘He says he likes his men to have the best of everything. His own car has a wireless in it. He can send messages straight to Scotland Yard while he’s driving along.’
‘Listen to that!’ said Bob. He pretended to use the phone. ‘Calling Scotland Yard. This is Bob Sheenan calling Scotland Yard. Like that, Superintendent? Does it work like that?’
‘It’s morse code,’ explained Douglas. ‘The wireless operator has to be able to use a morse key but he can receive speech messages.’
‘What will they think of next?’ said Mrs Sheenan.
‘Can we see your car?’ said Bob. ‘Is it a Flying Standard?’
‘The police have all sorts of cars, don’t they, Dad?’
‘All sorts.’
‘Can we go to the window and look at it?’
‘Finish your bread and then you can.’
With whoops of joy the two children went into the front room and raised the window to look down into the street at the car.
‘The bath water is still warm,’ said Mrs Sheenan. ‘Only the boys have used it.’ She looked away, embarrassed. Like so many people, she found the social degradation of the new sort of poverty more difficult to bear than its deprivations.
‘That would make a new man of me,’ said Douglas, although in fact the new changing rooms at the Yard had baths, and hot water in abundance.
‘There’s a bolt on the scullery door,’ she said. ‘Are you sure you won’t get into trouble taking us to the school?’
‘It will be all right.’
‘The regulations about the misuse of fuel are horrifying. That manager in the coal office in Neal Street was sentenced to death. I read that in the Evening News last night.’
‘It will be all right,’ said Douglas.
She smiled contentedly. ‘It’s more than a year since I was in a motor-car. My Uncle Tom’s funeral. That was before the war – seems like a hundred years ago, doesn’t it?’
Mrs Sheenan came and sat near the fire, and looked at it as it burned. ‘The wood is almost finished,’ she said, ‘but the oil-shop man will lend me a few more logs until the new ration period starts next week.’
Her voice made Douglas start, for the food, the hot tea and the warmth of the fire had caused him to close his eyes and nod off.
‘There’s something I have to bother you with, Mr Archer,’ she said.
Douglas reached into his pocket.
‘Not money,’ she said. ‘I can manage on what you give me, and the supplementary ration card you get makes a wonderful difference.’ She put out a hand and mechanically felt the heat of the teapot under its knitted cosy. ‘The two boys have an extra hour’s music lesson on Tuesdays and Thursdays. It’s only a shilling a week and they seem to like it.’
Douglas knew that she’d originally started to say something different but he didn’t press her. Instead he closed his eyes again.
‘More tea?’
‘No thanks.’
‘It’s the German ersatz. They say it’s made for them to have with lemon. It’s not very nice with milk is it?’
She disappeared behind the hanging gardens of damp garments, touching each of them to see how they were drying. She turned some of the garments round. ‘The woman down the street saw an ambulance train going through Clapham Junction last Monday. Carriages crowded with wounded soldiers – dirty looking and with torn uniforms – and two red cross coaches on the back, the sort they have for
stretcher cases.’ She put the pegs in her mouth while she rehung a child’s pyjama top. ‘Is there still fighting?’
‘I’d be careful whom you tell that to, Mrs Sheenan.’
‘She wouldn’t make up stories – she’s a sensible woman.’
‘I know,’ said Douglas.
‘I wouldn’t tell strangers, Mr Archer – but I always feel I can say anything to you.’
‘In the towns it’s just bombs and murdering German soldiers. In the country districts there are bigger groups, who ambush German motorized patrols. But I doubt if they will survive the winter.’
‘Because of the cold?’
‘You can’t light fires, because of the smoke. The leaves come off the trees, and so there’s no concealment, no cover. And in winter the spotting planes can see a man’s tracks better on the ground – and if it snows…’ Douglas raised his hands.
‘Those poor boys,’ said Mrs Sheenan. ‘They say it’s terrible in the unoccupied zone now, with the winter not even started. Shortages of everything.’ She hovered over Douglas and he knew she had something to tell him. Like any good policeman he let her take her time about it.
‘This music master who does the lessons – he’s very young, wounded in the war and everything, so I wouldn’t like to complain about him,’ she paused, ‘but he was asking the boys a lot of questions, and I knew you wouldn’t like it.’
Douglas was suddenly wide awake. ‘Questions? What sort of questions?’
‘Yesterday afternoon at the music lesson. They have a proper gramophone and loudspeakers, and everything to play the music – it’s music appreciation really – and he has someone to work it, that’s why it costs the extra shilling.’
Douglas nodded. ‘What’s his name?’
‘I don’t know, Mr Archer. Your Doug told me afterwards that the teacher was asking about you – what time you got home and so on. I didn’t want to question Douggie too much about it. You know how sensitive he is, and what with losing his mother…sometimes I could cry for the little love.’ She smiled suddenly and shook her head. ‘I’m probably being a silly old woman. I should never have worried you about it.’
‘You did right,’ said Douglas. ‘Questions, you say?’
‘Oh, nothing like that – rest your mind. He’s not that sort of man at all. I can spot those sort of men a mile off.’
‘What then?’
‘I think he wanted to know if you liked the Germans.’ She stood up and straightened her hair, looking in the mirror. ‘I don’t want to get either of them into trouble. And I know you wouldn’t either. But if something happened to you or your Douggie, how would I be able to live with myself if I’d not told you?’
‘You’re a sensible woman, Mrs Sheenan. I wish I had a few more police officers as sensible as you are. Now tell me more about these two teachers.’
‘Only one’s a teacher, the other just helps with the music. They’re from the war – officers I should think, both wounded; one has lost his arm.’
‘Which arm?’
‘The right one. And he used to play the piano before the war. Isn’t it a terrible thing, and he can’t be more than twenty-five, if that.’
‘I’ll have that bath now, Mrs Sheenan. You get the boys ready and I’ll take you to the school in about fifteen minutes’ time.’
She got the children’s raincoats from the cupboard. One of them was threadbare. ‘Bob’s raincoat was stolen from the cloakroom last week. He’s back to wearing this old one again. I’ve told the boys to take their coats into the classroom in future. There are some terrible people about, Mr Archer, but there, you must know that better than any of us.’
‘This fellow had a false arm, you say?’
‘No, his arm is missing, poor boy.’
Chapter Nine
When Douglas returned to Scotland Yard, having dropped the others at the school, he sought out a young police officer named Jimmy Dunn, and got permission to use him on plain-clothes duty. PC Dunn was keen to get into CID. He’d proved a good detective for Archer on previous cases.
‘Find out what you can about this music teacher,’ Douglas said. ‘Political? Sexual? Someone with a grudge against coppers? I don’t want to do it myself because it sounds like he’d recognize me.’
‘Leave it to me, sir,’ said Dunn who could hardly wait to get started.
‘Might be just a crank,’ said Douglas. ‘Might be nothing at all.’
Happily, Jimmy Dunn began tidying up his desk. He only tolerated his job with Assistant Commissioner Administration because his office on the mezzanine was so close to the Murder Squad and Flying Squad teams.
‘Oh, and Jimmy…’ said Douglas as he was turning to leave. ‘There’s a million to one chance that this one-armed fellow might be connected with the Peter Thomas murder. I think you’d better draw a pistol from our friends downstairs. I’ll give you a chit.’
‘A pistol?’
Douglas had to smile. ‘Take something small, Jimmy, something you can tuck away out of sight. And keep it out of sight, unless you have to defend yourself. We can’t be too careful nowadays. There are too many guns in this town at present, and there’s the devil of a row if someone loses one.’
In the new office on the other side of the building Douglas found Harry Woods valiantly telling lies to all-comers to cover Douglas’s absence. General Kellerman’s office had been asking for Douglas since nine o’clock that morning.
From Whitehall came the constant sound of workmen hammering. Berlin had announced that, to celebrate the friendship between Nazi Germany and the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, a week of Kameradschaft would be celebrated in all parts of the two vast empires. It was to begin the following Sunday, when in London, units of the Red Army and Navy, complete with band and choir, were to combine with the Wehrmacht for a march through town.
The whole route was being decorated, but Whitehall and Parliament Square were coming in for special treatment. As well as hundreds of flags, there were heraldic shields bearing entwined hammer, sickle and swastika surmounting a small Cross of St George which had now replaced the Union Flag for all official purposes in the occupied zone.
Hitler had provided the Red Fleet with anchorages at Rosyth and Scapa Flow as well as Invergordon. Goebbels’s Propaganda Ministry said that this was a natural outcome of the bonds of friendship that drew these two great peoples together. Cynics said it was Hitler’s way of putting some Russians between him and the Americans.
In spite of all the extra work that the German/Soviet Friendship Week would give Scotland Yard, General Kellerman remained his usual genial unhurried self. Even when he returned from a conference at the Feld Kommandantur with a briefcase loaded with FK-Befehle he was able to laugh about the way these reams of printed orders about the Friendship Week required the full-time attention of a roomful of clerks.
The proliferating orders coming from the Military Commander GB (and the Military Administration Chief GB who supervised the British puppet government and the German officials) were a sign of growing fear that the Friendship Week might become the occasion for violent demonstration. And yet the intense rivalry – not to say hatred – that the German army Generals felt for Himmler’s SS organization, and police affiliates, determined the army to ask from General Kellerman no more than the normal police requirements.
‘What do you think?’ General Kellerman asked Douglas. ‘You can be quite frank with me, Superintendent, you know that.’
Kellerman spread out on his desk that morning’s newspapers. They all headlined the Friendship Week announcement from Berlin. There was a certain irony in the way that the official Nazi newspaper in London, Die Englische Zeitung, did little more than print the official announcement verbatim, within a decorative box on the front page. The Daily Worker, on the other hand, devoted four pages to it – ‘Britain’s Workers Say Forward’ with photos of the Russian and British officials who would be present at the saluting base. Stalin had already penned a suitable message. Those who rememb
ered the congratulations Stalin sent to Hitler after the fall of France found his latest missive no less fulsome.
‘Will there be trouble?’ asked Kellerman.
‘From whom?’ said Douglas.
Kellerman chuckled. ‘The regime has enemies, Superintendent.’ He scratched his head as if trying to remember who they were. ‘And not all of them are on the General Staff.’ Kellerman smiled, enjoying his joke. Douglas was not sure whether he was expected to participate in this gross defamation of the German high command. He nodded as if not quite understanding.
‘There will be a lot of extra work for us,’ said Kellerman. ‘Berlin insists that the army line the entire route with soldiers. I should think there will be precious few left to march in the procession.’ He chuckled again. There seemed to be nothing to compare with the German army in trouble to put General Kellerman in a light-hearted mood. ‘And they plan to have Gendarmerie units every three hundred metres. How will they manage?’
‘And the Metropolitan Force?’
‘Normal police duties except for the issuing of movement passes.’
‘How will that work, sir?’
‘London Outer-Ring residents will be permitted to come into Central London each day for that week only. Local police stations will be issuing the passes, I’m afraid. Daily passes.’
Douglas nodded. It was easy to imagine the chaos that was going to descend upon suburban police stations. Half London had close relatives they could not visit because of the travel restrictions. ‘It would cut the work by half if the police stations could issue some passes for the whole week.’ Kellerman looked up and stared at him. Douglas added, ‘They would only be issued in the case of proved compassionate necessity.’
Kellerman looked at him for a long time before his face relaxed into a slight, inscrutable smile. ‘Of course, Superintendent. Only in the case of…what was it – proved compassionate necessity.’ Kellerman picked up the FK-Befehle and found the paragraphs referring to the issuing of passes. ‘I see no reason why I couldn’t introduce that provision into the orders.’ He smiled at Douglas. They both knew that this would provide a loophole, by means of which the local police stations would cut their workload drastically.