The Labyrinth Makers dda-1

by Anthony Price

  'Maybe not. But there were plenty like him—'

  "A daring pilot in extremity ...

  But for a calm unfit."

  You shouldn't be sad, then. You've been damned lucky!'

  'Lucky?' Faith sounded bitter.

  'Every one of you! You got a good step-father out of the deal. And your mother has a good husband.'

  'And my father and his crew–were they lucky?'

  'They were luckier still. Your father went out quickly just when he thought he was home and dry and the others saved their skins.'

  'And lost their treasure!'

  'But that was the luckiest thing of all–for them. You don't think they'd really have got away with it, do you? More likely it would have been their death sentence.'

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  'But you said — you've implied, anyway — that it was a marvellous plan?'

  'So it was. But it had one terrible flaw they didn't know about–the flaw you've forgotten about and I still don't understand. They'd got Panin after them!'

  'Panin–ugh!' Faith shivered. 'Every time you mention him it gives me the shakes–is he some kind of bogeyman?'

  Audley shrugged. 'I wish I knew. But I know the Russians never gave up looking for that Dakota, so the odds are they'd have been on your father the moment he tried to dispose of his loot. And judging by what they did to Bloch they wouldn't have been gentle.'

  She stared down at her feet miserably, and Audley cursed his runaway tongue, so proud of itself. He had set out to cheer her up and he had only reminded her of the real reason for this ridiculous treasure hunt. For a time he had almost forgotten it himself.

  It was his turn to put a reassuring hand on her arm now.

  'Never mind, Faith love. You don't have to meet the bogeyman on Tuesday. And you should get on splendidly with Maclean.'

  She turned to him in surprise. 'Panin's coming here–to England?'

  'You don't have to meet him.'

  'Don't have to? I want to! The only way to deal with nightmares is to get them out into daylight–and I don't believe he can really be so awful, not if he thinks the treasure's worth his precious time.'

  She was an innocent really, as so many of her kind were innocents.

  Always trying to transpose their safe, cosy world with that other, very different one: brave old Uncle Joe, puffing his pipe; cuddly dummy4

  Mr Kruschev, dandling his grandchildren on his knee; mild, worried-looking Mr Kosygin, playing the dove to Brezhnev's hawk. But he had to accept her jibe–it would only frighten her to point out that the worst nightmares were those which refused to dissolve in the morning sun.

  'Besides, if he's such a big wheel it would be an experience to meet him. I've never met anyone really important!'

  Audley felt another surge of affection for her: she was quite a girl.

  And it could do no harm, provided she held her tongue. It might even be an advantage, for equally Nikolai Andrievitch Panin would probably never have met anyone like her. She might put him off his stroke, if only just a little.

  'Very well, then, Faith. You shall meet him. But I still think you'll find Maclean more congenial.'

  'Just because he's honest? I don't even see why you're interested in him. Tierney said he had no part in anything.'

  'That doesn't mean he was blind or deaf. He was still one of the crew, and because he wasn't interested in making his fortune that way, your father just might have been more talkative with him.

  Besides, he was with him for one whole day between the trips–he went to London with him and Wojek on the Thursday. That was the day your book on Troy was bought, I've no doubt.'

  'How on earth do you know so much about what they did?'

  'It's all in the original investigation file. Our people were trying to find out what your father had done that made his plane so interesting to the Russians. They didn't find out, of course, but they dummy4

  managed a pretty detailed breakdown of his movements. And some shrewd character assessments, too.'

  Butler had originally described the file as an assembly of non-information. And so it was, to the extent that it had failed to provide any conclusive answers. But like an old but painstaking geological survey it contained a wealth of information which became useful in the light of further knowledge.

  'And as for Maclean being up your street–does Wadham Hill Comprehensive School mean anything to you?'

  Faith raised her eyebrows. 'Wadham Hill? Isn't that the one that got the spectacular Oxbridge results?'

  Audley nodded. 'I thought it might ring a bell with you. There was an article on it in one of the colour supplements, and it made the popular press too. One in the eye for the grammar schools. And all thanks to James W. Maclean–or "Big Jim" as he's known to his pupils. The papers liked that fine!'

  'And that's our Maclean?'

  'The same. Headmaster of Wadham Hill and sometime Flying Officer of 3112 Squadron. If we're nice to him perhaps he'll offer you a job sometime.'

  'To Steerforth's daughter? I should doubt that–unless he's got a special remedial class for budding criminal scientists! I think I'll be plain Miss Jones to him.'

  'You'll never be plain Miss Jones. But never mind–it's his memories we're after, not his professional approval. Always supposing he's available; it occurs to me that it may be his half-dummy4

  term too.'

  XI

  But James Maclean was available. He received them readily and courteously in the immaculate study of his home which overlooked the equally immaculate glass and concrete campus of Wadham Hill. It had been his boast, Audley remembered now, that as a headmaster he was ready to meet anybody at any time–the colour supplement had made much of that.

  But the 'Big Jim' nickname was puzzling. Clearly it didn't stem from size, either literally or by schoolboy mversion; Maclean was a neat, compact, average-looking man. Or perhaps it was a case of inversion, with the rough-hewn name contrasting with the man's intellectual precision–a compliment to the personality lurking beneath the neutral surface. There must certainly have been a measure of respect between him and Steerforth for him to have stood aloof from the hijacking without arousing ill-will.

  Maclean came round his desk to meet them. 'Dr Audley–Miss Jones–your card says "Ministry of Defence", and I must admit that I'm curious to learn what your Ministry wants with me on a Sunday. I thought at first it might concern the Combined Cadet Force, but neither of you has the Cadet look!'

  Maclean smiled as his eyes came to rest on Faith, but when she failed to return the smile the twinkle of good humour was replaced dummy4

  by a more speculative look.

  'It's good of you to spare us the time, headmaster,' said Audley, reaching into his pocket for his identification. Maclean studied the little folder carefully, nodded and returned it without comment.

  'We're hoping you may be able to help us with information about something which happened rather a long time ago. It concerns Flight Lieutenant John Steerforth–you were his navigator during the war.'

  Maclean stared at Audley steadily, with a slight crease of surprise wrinkling his forehead.

  'John Steerforth!' he said, repeating the name and savouring it as though it had a special taste. 'It's a very long time since I've heard that name. But I remember him, of course. As you say, I was his navigator. What do you want to know about him? He's been dead twenty years or more–he was killed just after the war. We had engine failure flying back from Berlin. We baled out, but Steerforth stayed with the plane until too late–that was the presumption, anyway.'

  'You remember him well?'

  'Do I remember him well? I knew him very well once, certainly.

  John Steerforth! It wasn't John, actually–it was always Johnnie–

  Johnnie Steerforth! As a matter of fact I've been reminded of him off and on down the years a number of times.'

  'How was that?'

  'By boys who were like him. Not the same–no one's the same. But the same type, the Steerfort
h type. And oddly enough I don't mean dummy4

  the Johnnie Steerforth type, either; I mean the original "J.

  Steerforth"–David Copperfield's Steerforth. It's a curious coincidence. The Steerforths of this world can be useful in the right settings and dangerous in the wrong ones. Good in war, because they enjoy taking risks. The trouble starts when there aren't any risks to be taken.'

  ' "A daring pilot in extremity",' murmured Faith.

  Maclean regarded her with interest.

  'I see you know your Dryden, Miss Jones. Very apposite –it sums up Steerforth very well, that whole passage.'

  He turned back to Audley. 'As I remember now there were a lot of questions about that last flight of ours at the time. They never found the plane, or Johnnie for that matter. I never understood why they made such a mystery of it; it was just pure bad luck.'

  Maclean had evidently missed the newspaper reports of the Dakota's reappearance. And naturally he hadn't been privy to the ditching plan.

  'We're not interested in that last flight, headmaster. We're only interested in the previous one from Berlin to Newton Chester.'

  'The previous one?' Maclean frowned. 'But that was just—' His voice tailed off slightly, then rallied unconvincingly '—just routine.'

  Maclean remembered well enough, or at least had just remembered well enough. But Audley judged that with him frankness might pay a bigger dividend.

  'Headmaster, we know all about Steerforth's cargo. We know what it was, where it came from and how it was taken off the plane. We dummy4

  also know that you had nothing to do with it. We're not trying to cause trouble for anyone. All we want to do is to find out where Steerforth put it.'

  Maclean looked at him incredulously, and then on through him back into the past.

  'Do you mean to say that Johnnie's precious boxes are still where he put them–after all this time?' he said at length.

  'Do you know where he put them?'

  'Good heavens–no! You'd do better to ask his second pilot — his name was Tierney. Or Morrison, the radio operator. I'm afraid I'm the person least likely to know.'

  'But do you remember the boxes?'

  'I remember the circumstances,' Maclean admitted ruefully. 'Now that you've reminded me I remember them all too well.'

  He paused. 'I really didn't want to be involved. I wanted to finish my service with a clear conscience–I even used to congratulate myself with the thought that we hadn't actually killed anyone–

  except accidentally, when we hit them with cannisters of supplies: Johnnie had the instincts of a bomber pilot, you know. It sounds rather naive, and quite false from a moral standpoint. But it kept me out of Johnnie's little rackets.'

  'The boxes?' Audley tried to prod him gently.

  'He was always offering to cut me in. To save me having to spend the rest of my life teaching Shakespeare to small boys! But I remember that on that penultimate flight he varied the offer: he said if I'd set my heart on teaching I could buy a school of my own dummy4

  with my share.'

  'And what did you say to that?'

  'I don't remember what I said. But I recall that it scared me considerably. I thought that if one share in Johnnie's boxes was sufficient to buy a school–you don't make that scale of profit from American cigarettes and nylons! I was afraid desire might have outrun performance with Johnnie. And evidently I was right!'

  The man's casualness had to be a sham, though not a guilty sham: no intelligent person could fail to be consumed with curiosity about the boxes' contents, least of all someone who had been involved with Steerforth, however innocently. Unless, of course, he already knew; but that didn't ring true of him, Audley judged.

  'I'm sure I can rely on your discretion, headmaster, if I tell you that those boxes contained priceless objects from a German museum.

  You were very wise to avoid the temptation.'

  'Johnnie looted a museum?'

  'Not quite. Say rather he looted the looters.'

  Maclean smiled. 'That sounds more like him. In fact it would rather have appealed to him.'

  He hadn't approved of Steerforth, or helped him, but he still had a soft spot for him–much as David Copperfield had for the other Steerforth. It vaguely irritated Audley that he had failed to see the Dickens analogy, even though it was as irrelevant as it now was obvious.

  'The point is we suspect the boxes are still somewhere on or near the old airfield at Newton Chester, sir. Do you have any dummy4

  suggestions as to where they might be, even if only in a general sense?'

  Maclean pursed his lips thoughtfully, and then shook his head. 'I don't think I have, really. It's a very long time ago, after all–half a lifetime. My memories are rather fragmentary. I wouldn't know where to begin to look: Newton Chester wasn't a big station, as I recall it, but it covered quite a large area. There were — let me see

  — about half a dozen boxes, and fair-sized boxes too–but it would still be like looking for a needle in a haystack. What makes you think they're still there?'

  'Steerforth didn't have the time or opportunity to move them far.

  We've covered his movements between the flights fairly well. He was duty officer on the Wednesday and he went to London with you and Flight Lieutenant Wojek on Thursday. Did he say anything about them then?'

  Maclean was staring at Faith, who was absent-mindedly polishing her glasses. He turned slowly back towards Audley.

  'I beg your pardon? We went to London? If we did I can't think why! It was a beastly journey there, and even worse coming back.

  A day trip was hardly worth it.'

  He spoke absently, and Audley could sense his interest slipping. Or rather, not slipping, but shifting to Faith.

  'Miss–Jones–I can accept irrational coincidences, but I have a good memory for faces, and I don't see how you can be a coincidence.'

  Faith started to put on her glasses, and then stopped, returning Maclean's curiosity coldly.

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  'Steerforth had a baby daughter,' continued Maclean. 'She'd be just about your age now . . . You have your father's eyes and forehead, Miss Jones, and some of his disdain too, I think. A stronger chin and mouth, but the resemblance is quite striking nevertheless.'

  'It's been remarked on before — you're memory is very accurate.'

  Maclean gave her a satisfied nod, smiling at her.

  'I was at your christening, Miss Jones–Miss Steerforth. As a matter of fact I was a proxy godfather. I remember the occasion quite well.'

  'It's a pity you can't remember what my father did with his stolen treasure,' said Faith icily. 'It's a pity you weren't able to keep him on the narrow path with you in the first place. It would have saved a great deal of heartache.'

  Maclean's face clouded. 'You think I was the Pharisee who passed by on the other side? That's not quite fair, my dear. You ought to know that young people don't interfere with their friends' private affairs–only the old and the middle-aged do that. And I was worried about your father; I said to him . . .'

  He stopped, and then swung to Audley again, nodding in delayed agreement.

  'You're quite right: we did go to London. My sister had tickets for a Myra Hess concert. Johnnie and Jan Wojek were going up on their own, and I just tagged along for the journey. We met up again to get the last train from King's Cross.'

  He tailed off, but Audley didn't dare to prompt him for fear of breaking the chain of remembrance.

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  'I'd been sitting there thinking about your father, Miss Steerforth, and thinking about his boxes. And when he got in I asked him if he'd got rid of them all right.'

  He paused. 'He said "Forget you ever saw those boxes of mine, old boy. You've had your chance"–or something like that. And he laughed and said that the German would be turning in his grave. I said "What German? You haven't been fraternising, have you?"–

  because we weren't supposed to have anything to do with the Germans then. He nearly fell off
his seat laughing at that–and he said his private German had been dead for ages. "The joke is it would take someone like him to find it now" he said.'

  He gazed at them both rather sadly. 'Perhaps that means more to you than it does to me. It was a private joke to him, but that's more or less what he said. And whatever you may think, Miss Steerforth, I did care. But your father went his own way — we even had some more of his boxes on that last flight, as a matter of fact.'

  'He was with Wojek when he came to join you on the train, was he?'

  'He was, yes–but I doubt that Jan Wojek will remember anything.

  They'd both had rather a lot to drink, but Jan was in the worse condition . . .'

  In the end Maclean had become rather fed up with his inebriated comrades, the Englishman full of excitement and misplaced elation, the Pole full of sadness, still fighting the well-founded suspicion that he had won his war and lost his country. So Maclean had settled back in his corner seat listening to his sensible conscience, which told him it was high time to stop flying and start dummy4

  his real career. To him, unlike the other two, the war had never been the great adventure, and now it was over anyway.

  Audley crunched away down the well-tended drive beside Faith, once more in a gloomy world of his own. He was aware that they had been less than gracious to Maclean at the conclusion of the interview. Faith had rebuffed the man's conventional questions about her mother with short answers; his own equally conventional gratitude had been short and insincere. And each was merely projecting personal feelings.

  With typically feminine unfairness, Faith obviously blamed Maclean for everything. He could have been the cohesive force in the crew, tipping the balance against temptation. Instead he had left well alone, saving his strength for himself, so it must seem to her.

  But human relations were never as simple as that in reality.

  His own disappointment was better founded, for that feat of memory which Faith's disapproval had stirred had thrown the whole question of the boxes' whereabouts into confusion again. If that private joke of Steerforth's had been recalled with any accuracy the boxes were below ground again, where Schliemann had found their contents in the first place. And that would make their rediscovery appallingly difficult, even impossible.