The Swiss Spy

by Alex Gerlis

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘I should like to see it.’

  Henry Hunter hesitated.

  ‘For the avoidance of doubt, Herr Hesse, I should tell you I have the right to search every item in your possession: the British passport please?’

  Henry lifted the tan briefcase on to his lap, angled it towards him and opened it just wide enough for one hand to reach in. He retrieved a thick manila envelope, from which he removed the passport and handed it to Edgar who spent a few minutes studying it.

  ‘Henry Richard Hunter: born Surrey, 6th November, 1909; making you 29.’

  ‘Correct.’

  Edgar held up the Swiss passport in his left hand and the British passport in his right, and moved them up and down, as if trying to work out which were the heavier.

  ‘Bit odd, isn’t it? Two passports: different names, same person?’

  ‘Possibly, but I very legitimately have two nationalities. I cannot see…’

  ‘We can come to that in a moment. The first thing then that puzzles me about you is you have a perfectly valid British passport in the name of Henry Hunter, which you used to enter this country on the 1st August. But, two weeks later, you’re trying to leave the country using an equally valid passport, but this time it’s a Swiss one in a different name.’

  There was a long silence. Through the window both men could see Swissair flight 1075 edge on to the runway. Edgar walked over to the window and gazed out at the aircraft before turning back to face Henry, raising his eyebrows as he did so.

  ‘Any explanation?’

  Henry shrugged. Edgar returned to the desk and reopened his notebook. He took a fountain pen from his pocket.

  ‘We can return to the business of flights in a moment. Let’s look again at your different names. What can you tell me about that?’

  ‘Will I be able to get on the next flight? There’s one to Geneva at three o’clock I think. It would be most inconvenient if I didn’t get back to Switzerland today.’

  ‘Let’s see how we get on with the explanation you’re about to give me, eh? You were telling me how you manage to have two nationalities and two names.’

  Henry shrugged, as though he could not understand why this would require any explanation.

  ‘Terribly straightforward, really. I was born here in Surrey as it happens, hence Henry Hunter and the British passport. My father died when I was 14 and a year or so later my mother met a Swiss man and married him fairly soon after. We moved to Switzerland, first to Zürich and then Geneva. When I was 18, I became a Swiss national, and for the purposes of that I used my stepfather’s surname. In the process, Henry became Henri. So you see, there’s really no mystery. I apologise if it turns out to have been in any way irregular as far as the British Government is concerned: I’d be happy to clear matters up at the British consulate in Geneva if that helps. Do you think I’ll be able to make the three o’clock Geneva flight?’

  ‘There are a few more questions, Mr Hunter. I’m sure you understand. What is your job?’

  Henry shifted in his seat, clearly uncomfortable.

  ‘I don’t have a career as such. My stepfather was very wealthy and had property all over Switzerland. I travel around to check on them – keep the tenants happy and make sure they pay their rent on time, that kind of thing: nothing onerous. I also did some work with a travel agency and a bit of translation. I’ve managed to keep busy enough.’

  Edgar spent a few minutes flicking through his notebook and the two passports. At one stage, he made some notes, as if copying something from one of the documents. He then consulted a map he’d removed from his jacket pocket.

  ‘You said that your stepfather was very wealthy…’

  ‘… He died a couple of years ago.’

  ‘And where did you live?’

  ‘Near Nyon, by the lake.’

  Edgar nodded approvingly.

  ‘But I see you now live in the centre of Geneva, on the Rue de Valais?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘And how would you describe that area?’

  ‘Pleasant enough.’

  ‘Really? From what I remember of Geneva that’s rather on the wrong side of the tracks. Overlooking the railway line are you?’

  ‘To an extent, yes.’

  ‘Well, either one is overlooking the railway line or one is not?’

  ‘Yes, we do overlook it.’

  ‘Sounds rather like a fall from grace. Wish to tell me about it?’

  Edgar selected another cigarette and he had smoked most of it before Henry began to answer. He appeared to be distressed, his voice now much quieter.

  ‘After my stepfather died, it transpired he had another family, in Luzern. Of course, with hindsight that explains why he spent so much time in Zürich on business; my mother never accompanied him on those trips. The family in Luzern, it turned out, were the only legitimate family as far as Swiss law is concerned and therefore had first claim on his estate. I don’t fully understand why, but my mother’s lawyer assures us there is nothing whatsoever we can do about it. The property by the lake near Nyon turned out to be rented and the various bank accounts my mother had access to were more or less empty. We quickly went from being very comfortable to very hard up: hence the flat by the railway line. We’ve only been able to survive as we have because my mother had some funds of her own, not very much, and her jewellery: fortunately there was quite a lot of that. She’s had to sell most of it. I do as much freelance translation as possible at the international organisations, but work isn’t easy to find at the moment. These are difficult times on the continent.’

  ‘As one gathers. So the purpose of your visit back to England – to get away from it all?’

  ‘Family business, friends. That type of thing.’

  Edgar stood up and removed his jacket, draping it carefully over the back of his chair before walking to the front of the desk and sitting on it. His knees were just inches from the other man’s face. When he spoke it was in a very quiet voice, as if there was someone else in the room he didn’t want to hear.

  ‘Family business, friends. That type of thing… What you need to know Mr Hunter is that we already know an awful lot about you. We have, as they say, been keeping something of an eye on you. It would save a good deal of time if you were to be honest with me. So please could you be more specific about the family business you mentioned?’

  ‘You said “we”. Who do you mean by ”we”?’

  Edgar leaned back, pointedly ignoring the question.

  ‘You were going to tell me about your family business, Mr Hunter.’

  ‘My aunt died in July. She was my late father’s elder sister. I was attending her funeral.’

  ‘My condolences. Were you close to her?’

  ‘Not especially, but I was her closest living relative.’

  ‘And you are a beneficiary of the will, no doubt?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And how much did you inherit, Mr Hunter?’

  The Swissair DC-3 was now beginning to taxi down the runway. A tanker was turning around in front of the building, filling the room with the smell of fuel. Henry shifted in his chair.

  ‘By the sounds of it, I suspect you probably already know the answer to that.’

  Edgar had returned to his chair and leaned back in it so it tilted against the window. As he did so, he crossed his arms high on his chest, staring long and hard at Henry.

  ‘What I’m curious about, Mr Hunter, is whether my answer is going to be the same as yours. How about if I endeavour to answer my own question and you stop me if I say anything incorrect?’

  ‘Before you do, could I ask whether you are a police officer?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘If you’re not a police officer, what authority do you have to question me like this?’

  Edgar laughed, as if he found Henry’s remark to be genuinely amusing.

  ‘Mr Hunter. When you find out on what authority I operate you will very much regret asking
that question. So, shall I tell you my version of why I think you came over here?’

  Henry loosened his tie and turned around in his chair, looking longingly at the door, as if he were hoping someone would come in and explain the whole business had been a terrible misunderstanding.

  ‘Louise Alice Hunter was, as you correctly say, your late father’s elder sister and you were indeed her only surviving relative.’ Edgar had now opened his notebook and was referring to it as he spoke. ‘She was 82 years of age and had been a resident in the Green Lawns Residential Home near Buckingham for nine years. The matron of the home informs us that you dutifully came over to visit her once a year. You visited her last November and then again in May, shortly before she died. On each of those visits you were accompanied by her solicitor. Am I correct so far?’

  Henry said nothing.

  ‘I shall assume then that you will point out if anything I say is incorrect. Your aunt died on the 24th July and you flew here on the 1st August, which was a Tuesday, if I am correct. You travelled straight to Buckinghamshire, where the funeral took place last Thursday, which would have been the 9th. So far, nothing remarkable, eh?’

  Henry nodded.

  ‘But this is where an otherwise very ordinary story does become somewhat less ordinary: sordid, perhaps. I am now relying on a statement kindly provided by a Mr Martin Hart, who, as you’re aware, is your aunt’s solicitor and the man who accompanied you on your last visits to your aunt. According to Mr Hart, your aunt’s estate amounted to a not insubstantial eight thousand pounds, all of which was held in a deposit account administered by Mr Hart. You are indeed a beneficiary of that will; the main beneficiary most certainly, but – crucially – not the sole beneficiary. There were bequests totalling some one thousand pounds to various friends, staff and charities, but after Mr Hart had deducted fees due to him and duty was paid to Exchequer, you would expect to receive a sum of just under six thousand pounds: certainly a handsome sum. Does this sound correct to you?’

  ‘If you say so. You do seem to know a good deal more than I do.’

  ‘But there’s a small problem, from your point of view. That money could only be passed to you once probate was granted, which could take many months, perhaps even up to a year. We’ve already established you and your mother have serious financial problems. Your inheritance would restore you to a position of financial security. You would once again be wealthy. However, waiting for probate is bad enough, but with the very likely – some would say imminent – possibility of war, you had a quite understandable concern that you may not be able to get that money out of England and into Switzerland for quite a long time. I…’

  ‘… You’re making a number of assumptions here, Edgar. What makes you think I’ve done anything improper? I…’

  ‘Mr Hunter, who said anything about doing anything improper? I certainly didn’t. But, as you raise the subject, let me tell you what the most obliging Mr Hart has told us. According to him, he was prevailed upon by you to cut a few corners, as he put it, and to ensure the entire funds of the deposit account were released straight away. This is not only improper, it is also illegal.’

  Henry shifted in his chair and pulled a large handkerchief from a trouser pocket to mop his brow. Edgar had now removed a pair of reading glasses from a crocodile-skin case and, after polishing them for longer than necessary, he began to read from a document he’d extracted from the desk drawer.

  ‘According to the best legal advice available to me, there’s no question that both Mr Hart and you committed a crime, namely conspiracy to defraud. My learned friends tell me that on the evidence they’ve seen, a conviction would be extremely likely and a term of imprisonment would almost certainly ensue. They say there is ample prima face evidence to show you have conspired to defraud His Majesty’s Exchequer of the duties owed to it from your great aunt’s estate and you had conspired to prevent the other beneficiaries of the will from receiving the money bequeathed to them. Fraud, Mr Hunter, is a most serious criminal offence. Confronted with our evidence Mr Hart has, as I say, been most co-operative. He claims that due to a health issue, as he describes it, he allowed himself to be persuaded against his better judgement to release the funds. He admits he received a much larger fee than he would ordinarily have expected. Apparently…’

  ‘It’s not as bad as it sounds, I have to tell you.’ Edgar was taken aback by how forceful Henry was sounding. ‘I told Hart that if I was able to take the money to Switzerland while I could, then I’d be in a position to return the money owed to the exchequer and the other beneficiaries very soon, certainly before probate would ordinarily have been granted.’

  ‘Really? I think you and Mr Hart cooked up a somewhat clever scheme whereby you were counting on war being declared. Mr Hart believed that, in those circumstances, he could apply to be granted a stay of probate until such a time as you were in a position to claim. In other words, Mr Hunter, he would use the war as an excuse: pretend to keep the money in the deposit account until after the war, whenever that is. Except, of course, the money would not be in the deposit account, it would be with you in Switzerland. Apparently, he – you – may well have got away with it had not the matron at the home overheard some conversation about it between yourself and Mr Hart, and contacted the police.’

  ‘It would all have been paid back, I promise you. Once I deposited it in Switzerland, I would have transferred what I owed back. It seemed easier to send the money back from Switzerland rather than wait for probate then have it transferred from London.’

  ‘Really? All we need to do now is find the money, eh Hunter? Do you want me to hazard a guess as to where it could be?’

  Henry sat very still and stared across the airport as Edgar stood up and walked around the desk. Once in front of Henry he bent down to pick up the two leather briefcases and placed them both on the desk.

  ‘Keys?’

  Without saying anything or diverting his gaze from the runway, Henry reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and produced a set of keys, which he handed to Edgar.

  It took Edgar a full 20 minutes to remove all the bundles of banknotes from the two briefcases, assembling the different denominations in separate piles. Not a word was exchanged during this process, which Henry watched with some interest, as if he had never seen so much money before. By the time Edgar had finished, there were four piles: one comprised the bundles of ten shilling notes, another the one pound notes, then five pound notes and ten pound notes. The pile of the large, white fives was by far the largest.

  Edgar stepped back from the desk and stood beside Henry. The entire surface of the desk was covered in money.

  ‘I’ve only of course been able to do an approximate count, but I’d say that there’s seven thousand pounds there. Would that be correct, Mr Hunter?’

  ‘More or less. I think you’ll find it’s more like six thousand, eight hundred pounds. Mr Hart claimed rather late in the day he needed another two hundred pounds – for expenses, apparently.’

  ‘Two hundred pounds doesn’t seem to me to be very much considering the impact this is likely to have on his professional career.’

  ‘It’s all been rather rushed, Edgar. As it was such a large sum of cash we had to withdraw it from a main branch of the Midland Bank in the city. We were only able to get hold of it this morning.’

  ‘Yes, I’m aware of all that Mr Hunter.’ Edgar was still standing next to Henry, with a hand on his shoulder. ‘In a moment some colleagues of mine are going to come and take you away. I shall look after the money and all your possessions. We shall meet again in a few days.’

  ***

  A few minutes later, Henry Hunter had been escorted from the airport in handcuffs by three uniformed police officers. In the office overlooking the runway, Edgar removed his tie, lit another cigarette and dialled a London number from the telephone nestling between the bundles of banknotes on the desk.

  ‘It’s Edgar.’

  ‘I thought it might be you. How did it
go?’

  ‘Very much according to plan.’

  ‘Good. We’re on then?’

  ‘Yes. Indeed. We’re on, as you put it Porter.’

  ‘And what’s he like?’

  ‘Rather as we were expecting. Not altogether the most agreeable of types, but then that’s hardly a disqualification in our line of work, is it?’

  ‘Too true… and, um, any hint at all of… you know?’

  ‘No, none whatsoever. He was rather impressive in that respect, I must say. Had one not been aware, one would really have had no idea at all.’

  ‘Splendid. What now?’

  ‘I think he needs a few days on his own. It ought to be easy enough after that.’

  ***

  Chapter 2: London, August 1939

  It was early on a blazing hot Monday afternoon – one of the first truly hot days that August – when Edgar stepped out into Whitehall and paused for a good minute or two on the pavement to enjoy the sun. There was an uncharacteristic bounce in his step as he strolled up Whitehall to Trafalgar Square where he caught the number 12 bus and headed west. He needed some time to think and what, he thought, could be a more pleasant place to do that from than the top deck of a London bus?

  He stayed on the bus until Notting Hill Gate then walked over to Kensington Park Road, taking care as he did so to ensure he was not being followed. He was about to walk, but a number 52 bus came along and he decided to hop on. He stayed on the bus until it was halfway down Ladbroke Grove. He waited a full five minutes at the bus stop to ensure his tail was clear then headed north-west to where the grandeur of Holland Park petered out to a series of plain and forgettable buildings. He passed a grocery shop with a long and excited queue outside it and briefly wondered whether he should join it, as one did these days, but a glance at his watch made him realise he needed to hurry.

  Edgar paused outside a small alley, allowed an elderly lady to be pulled past him by a pair of yapping terriers then entered the alley. At the end of it he pressed a bell and a large iron gate swung open. He was now in a small courtyard: a policeman saluted and unlocked a door and from there Edgar descended three flights of stairs before finding himself in what was, to all intents and purposes, a small police station.