Cargo of Eagles
Page 18
He eyed Campion respectfully over his half finished pint. ‘Your idea helped, of course, but it was still the leg work that produced the result.’
‘Skipper?’
‘That was a long shot of yours, but it paid off. Yes, he’s called the Skipper, because he talks about boats, just as you said. I haven’t seen him myself, mark you, but the identification is pretty positive. Sergeant Openshaw, one of Foxy’s men, found him. The woman’s name is Medway, by the way, Mrs Rita Medway, and her new brother in-law calls himself Connor which suggests that he bought his papers from an Irishman. It’s pretty nearly exactly what we expected.’
He sighed. ‘That’s the end of the trail as far as I’m concerned. A pity. I enjoyed what there was of it. I’ll just stay to see you make your contact. You wouldn’t care to take me . . .’
Mr Campion shook his head regretfully. ‘If he spotted you he’d recognise an old enemy and he’d get me confused with the police, which is the last thing I want. My chat with him has got to be friendly or it defeats its own purpose. You did say your man thought he was a regular here?’
‘Most evenings, he said. They have a couple of doubles, a bit of a chat with the governor and a few old cronies and go off early. It doesn’t sound like Teague, I admit, but our chap is quite certain. He smokes like a gaolbird, too—keeps the fag end turned into the palm of his hand, which is a habit you find difficult to break after twenty years.’
The main saloon with its ornate Victorian carving, formal plastered ceiling and gleaming cut glass panels was beginning to fill. The little bar in which they stood was protected from prying eyes by a grille of square decorative glass windows moving on swivels so that an order could be given in complete privacy from the general public and the drink pushed discreetly beneath the barrier. It provided a perfect screen for an observer and presently Oates who had been keeping one eye on an opening caught his companion’s arm.
‘They’ve just come in,’ he said. ‘The woman in the green scarf. That’s Teague with her all right.’ He stood aside to let Campion move closer. ‘I think you’re in for a shock.’
The first impression of the man in the blue reefer suit which no longer fitted him was that he was nearer seventy than sixty. He was standing beside the bar and as the landlord produced two glasses he carried them very slowly to one of the small tables against the upholstered wall benches where a woman was waiting. A black beret hid most of his forehead but the stiff hair beneath it was white and there was a trimmed stubble around his mouth which was nearly a beard.
Steel-rimmed government spectacles with a strong magnification gave his eyes the appearance of staring blankly and he blinked continually as if he found the light too strong. Only the genuine flash of very white teeth gave an indication that there had once been strength and ruthlessness where only their ghosts remained.
The woman in the scarf beside him, a bravely unfading blonde with unfashionably red lips, sat erect, emphasising her companion’s stoop, defiantly protective, her eyes flickering cautiously over the customers.
Mr Campion shook himself.
‘Not a good advertisement for our prison system,’ he murmured. ‘But it goes deeper than that, I think. He looks to me like a chap who’s given up, retired, lost interest in life. He could also be afraid. The fact that he’s torn up his ticket and changed his name could explain that, of course, but he certainly looks like a non-starter to me. What do you think?’
The ex-A.C. shrugged his shoulders.
‘A long term does that to men sometimes. No one’s proud of it, but it happens. Go round and have your word with him. You know, I think I’ll wait and keep an eye on you, just in case.’
Mr Campion left his companion and made an unobtrusive approach to the table in the further bar. He drew up a chair apparently by chance with the merest inference of an apology at the intrusion and sat for some time sipping whisky without interest in the two who were facing him. Finally he leaned across and spoke directly.
‘Skipper Connor?’
Suspicion chased by anger flashed across the woman’s face and she placed a thin hand with blood red fingernails over the man’s wrist.
‘We don’t know you. What’s your game?’
Mr Campion turned to her. ‘It’s Mrs Medway, isn’t it? I’m not a policeman, not even a friend from the past. I think you could describe me as a negotiator—a man with a proposition. I’m prepared to pay for the information I need. The sum I had in mind is very large.’
A sudden impish smile flickered across the man’s mouth and for an instant it was possible to glimpse the charm and the force which had withered. The spark faded as swiftly as it had appeared, leaving the face cold and expressionless.
‘You’re wrong, you know. You’re dead wrong. I’ve nothing to sell.’
‘Leave him alone, you bastard,’ said the woman. ‘We don’t like your sort. If you won’t go then we will.’ She stood up. ‘We’ll go now.’
‘Not for a minute.’ Mr Campion’s tone was unemotional. ‘Skipper, I’m talking about the barge Blossom. One question. One answer. A small fortune in any form you like and no strings attached.’
The man in the beret sighed. He was looking at Campion as if he saw him from a distance.
‘The barge Blossom,’ he repeated slowly. ‘Do you know, mister, that for twenty years people have been asking me about that God-forsaken hulk? Men in nice suits, men in suits they’d only just changed into because they wanted to pretend they weren’t officials, screws, con men, big timers, water rats, the whole crew. I’ve seen the inside of every interview room from the Moor to Parkhurst, from the Governor’s cabin to a cell that looked and stank like the heads in a Greek tramp. Always the same question.’
‘And always the same answer?’
‘Too bloody true, mister. Always the same answer. I never saw the Blossom in my life so far as I know and I certainly never sailed her. Why do you think I’m hiding like a rat with a pack of yard dogs sniffing after me? Because I never want to hear the blasted name again.’
‘You could name a price. No string attached.’
‘Not for a Chinese harem or the Crown Jewels. I don’t know a goddam thing, and that’s for free. Ask Rita and she’ll tell you.’
Mr Campion turned towards her. ‘For ten thousand pounds?’ he murmured. ‘It’s a lot of money, I would have thought.’
The woman drew a deep breath, closing her eyes and leaning hard against the shining leather.
‘He doesn’t know a thing,’ she muttered. ‘He’s just a damned old fool without the price of a light to his name.’
Gradually her tension slackened and she put up a hand to primp her hair. A smile which was sly and confiding crept across her mouth showing teeth which were smeared with lipstick.
‘You’ve lost your bet, dear. They all have. Now sing for your supper and get us a couple of drinks. Sid knows what we want.’
Mr Campion returned to the smaller bar feeling old and melancholy. The elderly couples had disappeared and Oates was sitting in a corner by himself, his deplorable grey felt hat on the table beside a glass of overbright port. He looked up as the thin man came in and the wrinkles in his forehead were quizzical.
‘You did yourself no good? I was afraid of that. Teague’s got old and tired like the rest of us. He’ll go no more aroving as the song says. Did he tell you that?’
‘Just about. In almost as many words. Were you watching the proceedings?’
‘I kept half an eye on you.’
‘And the other? Something is amusing you. Never laugh at a comrade’s downfall. It’s a punishable offence in the Navy and considered very bad taste even in the police force.’
Oates raised his glass and sipped it thoughtfully as if he was considering whether to share a private joke.
‘I couldn’t resist it.’ he said at length. ‘It’s sheer habit I suppose—idle curiosity now. But I recognised the landlord of this joint. He’s Sid Lowenstein, a man who’s had a bit of wife trouble in his time. You
can hear him quarrelling with the present one now—she’s the fifth—without straining your ears. Just as a matter of private interest I eliminated a suspect in the case of the death of Hector Askew down at Saltey.’
‘Teague?’
The older man nodded. ‘Teague of the silver bullet. Sid’s a very reliable witness, especially in a matter which doesn’t concern him. Askew was killed on a Saturday just over a fortnight ago. On that day Teague, or the Skipper as he calls him, and his girl friend were here just after half past five. He remembers it because he does a little bookmaking on the side and they’d won quite a packet on the Kempton meeting—twelve quid to be exact. It puts him out of the running. If you want to know my opinion and I admit you haven’t asked for it. I’ll tell you.’
‘Go ahead, by all means.’
‘It’s straightforward logic when you consider the facts. Someone who knows Master Teague’s handwriting is forging his signature, copying his style, just to lead you on a wild goose chase. It explains why that mysterious wallet of his turned up so conveniently, for one thing. Has that occurred to you?’
Mr Campion sighed. ‘It has now,’ he said. ‘In fact it’s been occurring to me for some time. So don’t demobilise your forces just yet. There’s some unfinished business to be handled if you’re still in the old war horse mood. Teague may be a busted flush—he was pretty convincing—but the woman knows something, or she thinks she does. Can you find out all about her, how she’s living, who pays the rent and who her visitors are? She isn’t the fairy godmother type so someone has invested money in keeping that poor old pirate out of the limelight.’
Ex-Assistant Commissioner Stanislaus Oates rose to his feet.
‘Just what I was thinking myself,’ he said. He looked about him. ‘You know, Albert, I don’t like this place. It’s all very fine in its way, but somehow it’s what I call sordid and the port is terrible. Come along, my lad. Drive me to St James’s and I’ll give you a drink at my Club.’
17
The Picture on the Wall
MR CAMPION FOUND his ex-chief L. C. Corkran in the office in Killowen Square on the afternoon of Whit Monday. ‘The Department’, as he invariably called it, does not recognise Bank Holidays, for its connections are largely with countries who honour different feast days.
It was not a pleasant occasion for either man. When Morty had described ‘Elsie’ Corkran as commonplace close to but distinctive from a distance he had been remarkably shrewd, for across a desk the face suggested an officer who had served his country without achieving either seniority or character, whereas at twenty paces his precise white moustache and curling hair conveyed that he might be a doyen of diplomats or a Major General of cavalry. His voice was scholarly, clipped and completely colourless.
‘It comes to this,’ he said after hearing the recital of Campion’s adventures. ‘We are back to square one. Teague is not in the running as a lead and is quite prepared to die with his secret. One cannot, I suppose, blame him for his attitude. The rest of the riff-raff, as you depict them, seem to me to be small villains, stirring up trouble to see if they can force or frighten someone else into making an informative move. We appear to be in much the same position ourselves. Would it be fair to say that?’
Mr Campion who was always acutely reminded of long impersonal sessions in his tutor’s rooms at Cambridge on occasions when he visited Killowen Square, took his time before replying.
‘Not quite,’ he said at last. ‘The opposition is still unpleasantly active, but there are one or two untidy threads which may lead me out of the labyrinth. It’s a question of time. How long have I got?’
‘Days, rather than weeks, if I may misquote an ill-advised politican. Until dawn on Thursday to be precise. The transport problem can be overcome by using diplomatic cover but that is the last—the final limit when I can be sure of getting an aircraft and the right man as a courier. Provisionally it will be at Southend Airport from Tuesday night, awaiting instructions.’ He hesitated with the flicker of a self-deprecatory smile. ‘I took that chance. I hope it is justified.’
‘You have news of Monique, then?’
The use of code names in the Department was designed for many reasons, but partly to reduce the personal element to a minimum. But the woman behind the old-fashioned pseudonym with its wartime echoes was nearer to being a personal friend than either man was prepared to admit. Acute danger was always conventionally discussed as a ‘temporary difficulty’ but the phrase did not conceal the terrifying anxiety it carried so lightly. Corkran made a pretence of looking at a folder on his desk, as if to refresh his memory.
‘Only indirectly. Our man thinks she will be moved from her present captors at the end of the week. They are instructed to hand her over to central authority and they’ve held out as long as they dare because they’re not sure of themselves. They also want the prestige of arresting her in case she talks. But a transfer to the big boys means new interrogations, different methods. Knowing her, I doubt if they would be successful, but we all have our breaking point. Unhappily, she has one of those damnable capsule things and she might—just might—use it. The difficulty, of course, is that a suicide like that always argues a professional. If one link is exposed and broken then the rest are too easy to identify. That could be rather unfortunate.’
He sighed. ‘You know all this. Have you any suggestions at my end?’
Mr Campion was shocked. The man across the desk rarely showed more emotion than a don correcting a mathematical exercise, but now he was pretending an indifference which was not convincing.
‘There is something you can do—a long shot, I admit, but we can’t afford to neglect it. Can you send me a mine detector and a man who knows how to work it?’
‘Of course.’ He had raised his eyebrows by the fraction of an inch at the suggestion. ‘A mine detector? You have some particular area in mind, I hope. That house you’re lodging in—The Hollies, isn’t it?—has been gone over rather thoroughly by the police within the last fortnight because of the man who was killed there. They used an apparatus of that sort since there was some question of finding the offensive weapon. They covered the grounds, too. I took particular note of it at the time and sent for all the reports because the suggestion frightened me. It would have cut across our plans awkwardly had anything been found. The connection between the killing and the anonymous letters and the inferred “keep off” warning was rather too obvious for my taste, but if anything had been there it would have been found at that time. You have a fresh zone to explore?’
‘I have an idea. The letters, by the way, were inspired by two other seekers after truth, but the lesser snake is scotched. I’m afraid the viper remains but he is probably more in the dark than we are. I can have my mine detector? When?’
Corkran glanced at the wall clock behind his visitor’s head. ‘Tomorrow morning will be the earliest, I’m afraid. You’ll be down at that end-of-the-world hole to meet him?’
‘I’m going there now,’ said Mr Campion. ‘Goodbye, Elsie.’
A conventional smile of farewell crossed the face which was so nearly handsome.
‘Quod petis hic est, I hope,’ he said. ‘Good God, Albert, how out of date I sound. But it would be pleasant to retire knowing that one had slipped a final fast one past the New Establishment. I do not love its silly face.’
‘Ora pro nobis,’ said Mr Campion.
The traffic of a Bank Holiday which was dizzy with sunshine had turned the suburban streets into solid queues of frustration. Mr Campion sighed with relief when he reached the horrific area of Victorian-Arabian architecture which marked the start of the old road to Saltey. It was not easy to remember, but once mastered, the route for all its twists and deviations was uncannily free from obstruction. He drove slowly, a sense of guilt sitting uneasily between his shoulder blades. To offer false hope to a man in Corkran’s state of mind was unforgivable but the gesture had to be made, because of the remote chance, the last stone which had to be turned.
An ancient joke suggested by the cluttered furniture of his bedroom at The Hollies? The childhood memory of a great uncle booming dull anecdotes over a dining table to which he was admitted on sufferance in uncomfortable clothes? A faded picture framed in red velvet? An overblown Duchess opening a Bazaar, conjured by flowered wallpaper?
There were two vehicles standing in the awkward circular drive when he arrived at Saltey. Morty’s Lotus and the dilapidated scooter which announced the presence of Mrs Weatherby.
She had discarded her working clothes for tailored tweeds which suggested that she might have arrived to pay a conventional call and she now sat upright in the big verandah chair facing the remains of another of Mr Lugg’s delicate teas. Morty and Dido, a trifle exhausted by the energy which vibrated from her, were patently relieved to see him.