Shadows over Stonewycke

by Michael Phillips

  “There’s no suckin’ blood from a turnip.”

  “Offer him money—anything!”

  “I tried that, mum.”

  “There must be a way.”

  “Let’s be gettin’ home,” suggested Billy wearily. “Mebbe after a good rest, we’ll come up with somethin’.”

  They started off, but after another few steps, Allison stopped suddenly again.

  “Oh drat!” she exclaimed.

  “Mum?”

  “I lost my earring. I’m sure I had it when I went into that place. I’d best go back and check. I must have dropped it.”

  “Ye sure, mum?” said Billy, who had not seen her hand quickly snatching away the earring only a moment before.

  “I’ll only be a moment,” said Allison, running off, not giving Billy the opportunity either to argue or to accompany her.

  “Let me go,” he protested.

  But it was too late. She was already at the door of the place she had entered so reluctantly only five minutes earlier.

  “Here it is!” she said triumphantly, exiting a few moments later, just as Billy was about to go in after her.

  Billy never realized he had been taken in by the sweet Mrs. Macintyre. Had he known, he might have stayed in the next few evenings, anxiously awaiting whatever might develop from Allison’s return dash into the pub. As it was, he was out and not to be reached when Allison needed him most.

  She knew leaving her phone number with the pubkeeper was foolhardy at best, as was telling him she had vital information for the man they were seeking, Mr. Smith—which she spoke with sufficient emphasis to let him know that they both knew more than they were letting on. If the man was German, which she by now had every reason to suspect, she hoped her bait might be enough to bring him out of hiding.

  Her little scheme worked. The next evening her phone rang. A man with a decidedly German accent wanted to meet her at nine p.m. In no position to argue, she scribbled down the location. Her heart was pounding when she hung up the phone. Thankfully, the rendezvous would not take place on Bunker Street. The man had instead given her the name of a different pub, The Silver Stallion, down by the river—not far from the docks. The man must like odd colored animals, thought Allison to herself. Her attempt at humor, however, was but a thin mask over her rising fear that she had gotten herself into more than she bargained for.

  She tried to call Billy several times, but to no avail. Finally, as eight o’clock drew near, she had no choice but to leave the baby with her neighbor and strike out alone.

  28

  The Foggy Riverfront

  The night was dark and misty with a light fog. An evening wind had begun to blow in from the mouth of the Thames, swirling the gathering mist about the deserted streets.

  Allison would be able to take the tube only part of the way. The dimly lit underground station proved just slightly less portentous than the somber open air. During the blitz these stations had been a thriving beehive of activity as thousands of Londoners sought shelter from the incessant German bombs. Many had slept regularly in whatever corner of a tube station they could find. Even now Allison observed several men dozing off on benches or in out-of-the-way corners, but now they were more likely homeless drunks than citizens fearful for their lives.

  Allison got off at Tower Hill. Slowly she walked up a long flight of stairs and into the dark night. Billingsgate Market to her right was by now long deserted, but she suspected The Silver Stallion to be in that direction. There was no one about as she began walking south toward the river. It was not far; already she could hear sounds of an occasional ship or barge passing by, sounding their muted horns in warning.

  She reached the river at eight-thirty. To her right, just past the Billingsgate, was London Bridge. On her left, in the vague distance through the fog, she could make out the imposing spires and turrets of Tower Bridge. Everything looked so silent and sinister in the fog and dark. Why had the man asked her to come here? Why had she agreed? What a fool she must be! The whole idea was stupid. She should never be here by herself. The man could be dangerous, whether or not he was a friend of Logan’s. But she had come too far to turn around now. If only Billy were here!

  “Dear Lord,” she prayed, hardly realizing that she had not taken the time to pray about finding Logan since first spotting the stranger while with Sarah, “forgive me if I am being foolish. But please help me to learn something of Logan. Protect me, Lord.”

  Some ten minutes’ walk more brought her alongside the Billingsgate. At least now there were a few people about here—mostly seamen, none of whom, to her relief, bothered her. None of the pubs displayed the sign she sought. At last she walked inside one to ask if she was anywhere near The Silver Stallion.

  The pubkeeper gave her a peculiar smile, then laughed.

  “Sure, lady,” he said. “You’s near it all right. Though what you’d want there I can’t think!” He laughed again.

  “Where is it, please?” asked Allison.

  “Straight on down, miss,” replied the man, still chuckling to himself.

  Allison hurried out. At the next cross-street, all activity seemed to cease. Slowly she walked across. In the distance she could see nothing but dark, silent, run-down buildings. Surely there’s no pub down there, she thought. Yet this was in the direction the man had pointed.

  Slowly she continued on, her eyes scanning the buildings through the mist. They looked more like warehouses than anything, although there were signs of bomb damage all about, so it was difficult to tell. Everything had grown ominously silent around her.

  Allison stopped. This was absurd. There couldn’t possibly be any pub around here. She looked around one last time, walking slowly back and forth. What was that just ahead? It looked like it could be a sign. She approached. Yes—there was an old sign above the door. But the place was dark, its windows and doors boarded up. She reached the door. In the darkness she could barely make out a few letters on the old and dilapidated marker that must have at one time invited patrons to enter: Si—Stal——was all she could read. But that was enough! She had been led here under false pretenses. She’d been an idiot—she had to get out of here!

  Allison turned to retrace her steps.

  She had not even seen the black figure step out from between two buildings just beyond where she stood.

  The moment she began to run an arm shot out from behind and caught her in a vise-like grip. Allison screamed.

  “There’s no one to hear you, Frauline,” said a sinister gravelly voice. Notwithstanding his words, he clamped his hand tightly across her mouth. “I will do the talking for the moment,” the accented voice went on, “but when you are required to speak, remember that I have a weapon pressed into your back.”

  He jabbed his pistol fiercely into her ribs to emphasize the veracity of his words. “Now, who are you, and why are you following me?”

  “I’m Allison Macintyre,” said Allison when the man released his fingers. She said no more, not only because her lips were trembling, but also because she hoped the mention of her name would signify her interest to the man.

  “Is that supposed to mean something to me?” he snapped. It obviously did not.

  “I’m only trying to find my husband,” she managed to say.

  “What’s that to me?”

  “You know him.”

  “Says who?”

  “I’ve seen the two of you together. I had hoped you might be able to tell me where he is.”

  “His name?”

  “Logan Macintyre.”

  “The name means nothing to me.”

  “But I saw you together in a restaurant, several months ago,” she said in desperation. “You were talking at a table, but when I came, you stopped, and then left quickly.”

  An agonizing moment of silence passed. Allison could not tell if he was trying to recall the meeting or contemplating the best method for her demise.

  “Ah, so that is why I recognized you at the newsstand,” he said fin
ally. “Trinity is your husband.”

  There was a faint hint of would-be laughter in Gunther’s voice, as if the incident might be comical if the stakes weren’t so deadly serious.

  “Trinity? I don’t understand,” said Allison.

  “You don’t need to understand. You need only forget you ever saw me.”

  “Where is my husband?”

  “I don’t know, and I don’t care.”

  “How do you know him?”

  “We had business together once.”

  “What is he doing?”

  “You ask too many questions.”

  “I have to know.”

  “You have to know nothing! These are dangerous times, made all the more dangerous by interfering fools.”

  “I am his wife!”

  “If you persist in your questioning and idiotic sleuthing,” said Gunther, “you will endanger the lives of many people, your husband included.”

  “Why? Why can’t you tell me?”

  “Listen to me, Frau Macintyre, you are treading upon dangerous ground. Stop, or you will find yourself with more trouble than you know what to do with. I would not like to see you dead, but I myself would kill you in order to save my own neck. Don’t make me do that!”

  “I will go, then!” answered Allison. “I have only one more question. Is my husband safe?”

  “No one is safe in this dark world,” Gunther replied shortly. “What is safe? Everything is, how do you say it here, topsyturvy? To my knowledge, no ill has come to your Trinity. But I have not seen him for months, and he is in a dangerous game.” He paused. “Now, I want you to start walking,” he said, slowly releasing his arm from around her neck. “You will go back the way you came—I will be watching you. Do not turn around. For you to see my face again could someday mean your death.”

  His tone left no doubt that his surveillance would not end with her departure from this riverfront street that night. “You will forget my face . . . you will forget this meeting. You will forget all about me, for that matter, and about your husband also. We will all live much longer if you do so.”

  Allison’s heart had climbed up into her throat and her legs felt like rubber. Yet they somehow managed to propel her slowly away from the awful deserted place, and from the man who might be either friend or enemy—she could not guess which. Of only one thing she was fairly certain, that he honestly knew no more of Logan’s whereabouts than he had told her. The entire ordeal of this search had been a dangerous dead-end. She was no closer to finding Logan now than when she had begun. Only now she knew he was involved in something secretive, and that danger might now come to her as well.

  Despite Gunther’s stern injunction, she could never forget what had happened. To forget Logan altogether was unthinkable! What kind of man would suggest such a thing to a wife?

  But if she could not find him or help him, there was one thing she could do on Logan’s behalf. Something she should have thought of much sooner.

  Later that night, back in the safety of her own home, Allison knelt down at her bedside and began a ritual that would continue daily for many, many months.

  “Father,” she prayed, “I don’t know where Logan is or what he is involved in. Neither do I know where his heart is. But as you have always cared for us while we were straying through dark and shadowy valleys, care for him, Lord. As you watched over Lady Margaret and Dorey during the long years of their separation, watch over Logan. Don’t let him wander far from you. Bring him continually into contact with your presence, even if at times he is unable to recognize your hand in his life. Protect him, God. Strengthen his faith again. And strengthen my own! Help me to be faithful in this commitment to prayer, and to selflessly give myself to the rebuilding of our marriage.”

  29

  Eyes Across the Sea

  “And you say there’s no way either of them could have seen you?”

  “How many times ’ave I got to say it, mate? What kind of fool blighter does you take me for! The lady was scared clean out her skin. And as for that kraut—”

  “Watch your mouth, you old fool! Don’t forget you’re not in England now. Over here even the walls have ears. I don’t pay you what I pay you and then bring you all the way over here to have you shoot your mouth off and get us both thrown in some stalag. I pay you to keep me informed of the movements of that family and otherwise to keep silent.”

  “My apologies,” replied the old lackey, just a hint of sarcasm underlying the respectful tone of his voice.

  The man to whom he was reporting was in reality just past seventy and several years the senior of his cockney underling. But he bore himself with such peremptory authority, and the mere sound of his voice was so commanding, that few dared to cross him. To all appearances he was a man confident of always getting what he wanted.

  “As I was sayin’,” the man went on, “I’d been keepin’ my eye on the girl like you said. Still nary a word on her man, but she’s takin’ up livin’ in his old flat. Then she met that German fellow.”

  “Hmmm . . . most interesting,” said the other with a wave of the hand, speaking almost to himself. He leaned back from his desk and thought for a minute or two. This was an interesting business! What could she possibly have to do with a German? They were the most intriguing lot! Ever since reading about the marriage in the papers, he’d been curious as to what new possibilities might open up to him. Might there be something in this he could use? Even as he thought to himself, his intense black eyes glowed with a fire deeper than any human flame. I will bide my time, he concluded. As I always do. He had spent thousands of pounds over the years, in the hopes of ultimately satisfying the demon that still tormented him and fed the fires which looked out of his eyes. Yet ultimate victory had always eluded him.

  At length he exhaled sharply and looked up at the man still standing in front of his desk. From a drawer he pulled out a thick envelope.

  “Here is your fare back, and a little extra for your trouble,” he said. “Now you keep her under watch. I want to be able to get to her any time I want her. Is that clear?”

  “All clear, mate.”

  “And one more thing. You ever call me mate again, and I’ll have your throat slit. Is that clear?”

  “Clear enough . . . sir.”

  30

  Rescue

  A raw wind beat mercilessly upon the streets of Paris that chill November afternoon.

  The porter pushing his cart of beef down the avenue Foch hitched his frayed woolen coat more tightly about him. That was his only acquiescence to the icy cold, however, and he continued to shuffle along in the same sluggish, unhurried manner that he apparently used every day, no matter what the weather. He gave every indication of being both bored and worn out, whether from life’s hardships or the German occupation, it was impossible to tell.

  But why should he have hurried? His meat consignment was designated for S.S. headquarters—who else ate meat in Paris these days but the Germans? And it wouldn’t kill them to wait.

  An especially forceful rush of wind struck him at that moment, nearly tearing his beret from the thick gray hair underneath. He grabbed at the beret with more speed than any of his other movements would have indicated was possible, and firmly clamped it back in place. Then, hunching his shoulders up and lowering his head, like a ram, into the wind, he continued on.

  In another several minutes he came to the first checkpoint for the main building, which housed both a small facility for holding certain of their more important prisoners and the administration offices for the German S.S.—Schutz Staffeln, the elite police force organized by Heinrich Himmler.

  “Bonjour, Monsieur Sergeant,” he said in a gravelly mumble as he tipped his beret slightly.

  “What have you there, old man?” barked one of the three guards standing closest by, who was in truth only a corporal.

  The porter raised his bushy eyebrows as if he didn’t know what to make of a question with such an obvious answer, for large shanks of meat
were in plain view under the haphazardly placed canvas tarp. He stared at the guard with a deadpan expression; then finally a slow grin appeared between the tufts of his tangled gray beard, as a deep guffaw began to rumble from somewhere deep in his throat.

  The guard stepped brusquely forward. “You imbecile!” he spat. “Lift some of that up—let me see under it!”

  “Ah,” said the porter, brightening with understanding. He pulled the flap back and proceeded to shove several of the shanks this way and that. “Eh, bien?” he said when the procedure was over, wiping his hands on the grimy blood-stained apron that hung beneath his coat. “Fine cuts, non? Very lean!”

  “Get on your way!” ordered the guard. “Dummkopf Französischer!”

  “Merci,” replied the porter, summoning the energy to continue on, shoving his cumbersome burden ahead of him.

  He crossed the large cobbled courtyard, pausing once to let a squad of marching soldiers pass. He then shoved on, going around to the service entrance with his load. There the supply clerk checked his clipboard for the delivery authorization, apparently unconcerned that he was an hour and a half late according to the regular schedule, put a mark on the page, and let the porter pass inside the building.

  “No wonder the old fool’s so much later than the usual man,” thought the guard as he watched the door close behind him. “Never seen a delivery man move so slow!”

  Still ambling along at his snail’s pace as if the only thing that mattered in life was placing one foot in front of the other, the porter moved down the length of one corridor, then another, pausing now and then to let soldiers pass, but meeting very few. Apparently his information had been correct, that the place would be nearly deserted during this precise time when the serving of dinner overlapped with the rotation of personnel on and off duty. Since they had to check in and out in the front of the building, the service and prison areas toward the rear were, for about a twenty-minute period, devoid of activity except for a skeleton maintenance crew. A silent observer might have questioned why he seemed to be moving away from the kitchen area where food deliveries were normally taken.