‘Notice the plane tree and the high wall round the yard?’ he asked. ‘There’s one of Miss Rachel’s windows which can’t be seen at all from over the way. Suppose she drops a knotted rope or something? Mornix is up there in three seconds flat. Changes Drops down. And there he is helping Bob to knock tacks in the sofa.
‘Bob waits till he can make a jump for the bathroom. Throws down Mornix’s clothes on the floor, locks the door, gets out of the window and off they go. That puts Miss Rachel in the clear. She swore to Jesus that she’d been up in her flat typing out notes on the sleeping arrangements of the natives down below and had never seen or heard a thing. And there wasn’t a scrap of evidence against her.’
The following morning before I left I went with him to have a look at the yard, the window and the plane tree. His theory held up. Mornix’s quick change could very well have been managed that way, taking the risk of someone leaning out of a window in the adjoining houses at the wrong moment.
I asked him why he had not put it to the police who might have been able to find some trace of the rope on the window sill or in Rachel’s flat. He was shocked that I should think he could be that sort of bloke. Some of those innocents in the commune might be capable of it, he said, but not he.
‘I’m a good citizen,’ he added. ‘And you know what that means—keep clear of the fuzz!’
‘But if you believe the woman was an agent of the KGB?’
‘So what? Start mucking about with her and they’d whip her off to Russia like Rory. And I’ll tell you another of them—Rory’s cousin Tessa. Friend of Rachel’s she was and belongs to the IMG.’
‘What’s that?’
‘International Marxist Group. That old billy-goat Trotsky.’
‘Then she wouldn’t be mixed up with the Communist Party.’
‘Well up in it all, aren’t you? I heard you carrying on about Mao as if you believed it. Now, how do you think we could make a bit out of what we know?’
Being a young fraud himself, he could spot another on sight as his more earnest companions could not. My impression was that he was getting bored with living from hand to mouth and could possibly be useful. I gave nothing away beyond an understanding grin, telling him that I would keep in touch with him. I agreed to take his greasy, black sweatshirt in exchange for my military frock-coat which he thought would add to his reputation as a harmless clown.
The next step was to report to Alwyn what I had learned of Rachel both from Tessa and at Whatcombe Street. Whatever he made of it, his blind confidence in her was bound to be shaken. But how to get in touch with him? He had said that I should leave that to him, though unless he was watching the street—which must be too big a risk to take—he could not know what my movements had been.
I telephoned Tessa’s office to see if she could give me any discreet hint and was told she was up in Glasgow with her boss; so I waited till evening and called her home. It was a pleasant male voice which eventually came to the telephone and answered me.
‘Tommy Bostock. Tessa is away. Can I give her a message?’
‘Would you tell her that Willie called?’
‘Willie? There’s a telegram here which may be a message for you.’
‘What does it say?’
‘Willie’s passport ready for collection Tuesday night. No signature. Are you a friend of hers? Have we met? I’m the chap who shares the flat with her.’
Though I had heard of this arrangement, I felt now an unreasonable touch of jealousy. I said coldly that we had not met and that I knew her in Devon.
‘Oh, good! Well, look here, I’m worried about her. You might be able to give me some advice. Could you come round?’
The last thing I wanted was to call at Tessa’s flat. It was one of the very few places which Marghiloman & Co might consider worth watching. Tommy Bostock must have noticed my hesitation, for he added at once:
‘Or I’ll meet you wherever you are. My car’s outside.’
There was a pub down the street from the box where I was telephoning, and I suggested it. He was there in ten minutes. Neither of us recognised the other, for each was expecting the opposite of what he saw. Tessa’s flat-mate would be, I reckoned, something of a Whatcombe Street type; he on his part assumed that a friend from Devon would be tweedy and respectable. What he saw was sandalled, scruffy, with a beard at its most squalid week-old stage, and what I saw was a young Londoner very informally but elegantly dressed.
We were staring at each other doubtfully for a full minute before he made the first move, and I admitted I was Willie.
‘When in Rome, do as the Romans?’ he asked with a smile.
‘Exactly.’
‘I imagine you know all about us from Eudora Hilliard?’
‘Well, no.’
‘I suppose it’s not the sort of thing she’d talk about. But there’s nothing in it. Tessa goes her way and I go mine.’
He seemed a very sensible chap and I asked him what made him agree to the joint flat.
‘I’m very fond of her and I wanted to see if it could possibly work. Her territory, you see, not mine. There’s no real parallel in other mammals. Occasionally she makes a display of hostility and I at once respond with the correct gestures of submission. That inhibits her very proper instinct to eat me or throw me out. Well, but I’m boring you. The fact is that she’s gone to stay with that awful woman, Rachel Iwyrne.’
‘Good God! What made her do that?’
‘Protest, I think. She had a row with her mother and then got stopped on the road by police. I gather it was Special Branch after her again. Lucky she doesn’t know how to make a bomb!’
‘Do they think she might?’
‘No, of course not. What I meant was that she’s in the mood to blow something up in aid of the Anarchists’ Annual Dinner and Dance. I wanted to ask you whether you think I should ring her mother and tell her Tessa is with this Rachel.’
It was plain that whatever I answered would make up his mind. I wished I could consult Alwyn, but that could not be before the next day, Tuesday. His telegram was as clear as it was ingenious. If I went to pick up my passport he would be there or thereabouts, and our meeting could not be traced.
I advised Tommy to call Eudora at once. After all, she was headquarters with a clearer picture of the whole threatening set-up than I had.
‘I’d better say it was you who told me to ring. Eudora thinks I’m a bloody fool. So I am probably. But I cherish our golden girl and I know I’m good for her. What’s your name besides Willie?’
That was a nasty one. I did not want the name of Adrian Gurney or the Portuguese being bandied about in Molesworthy, but I had to answer.
‘Willie Yonell,’ I said. That would alert Eudora and no one else.
I collected my own clothes at Charing Cross Station and changed back to the comfort of my windbreaker. I had been continually shivering since parting from the uniform coat. A hardy lot, the inhabitants of Whatcombe Street, male and female! By rights they should all have died of pneumonia. After spending the night in the Greenwich house, I approached Folkestone much as I had done before, getting off the train at a silent, country station and walking the last part of the journey after dark in case I should be seen and recognised by any of the police who had received Ionel Petrescu. Over the Channel was a brighter moon than on my first visit and different patterns of black and white, so I ran into more trouble finding my markers than I expected. I might have lost patience and tried again some other night if I had not had time to waste waiting for Alwyn to turn up.
When at last I had recovered the passport and replaced all other personal papers I settled down nearby. About two in the morning I saw the quick flash of a torch on the opposite slope which showed me in what direction to look so that I soon picked up a bush which moved among the others. We sat down in a hollow and I measured out my news, starting with Tessa’s adventure when returning from Molesworthy.
‘Too clumsy for our people,’ he said, ‘and if I am right they know all about Ione
l Petrescu. It sounds to me like your Mr. Marghiloman’s work and the same two men who followed Eudora and John. Was Tessa frightened?’
‘No, but blazing angry and in tears. She is being comforted by Rachel who took her home and is looking after her.’
‘Rachel protective? That’s very unlike her. Emphatically heterosexual and not a bit maternal.’
‘She was fishing for information. She told Tessa that there must be some connection between Ionel Petrescu and Alwyn Rory, wherever he is. Tessa was sure of her words. Where-ever he is. What reason had Rachel got to suppose you are not in Moscow and who told her?’
‘Anything else?’
I could see that I had him worried and that it would now be safe to open up Ciampra’s theory without being told it was ridiculous.
To my surprise he accepted it and blasted himself for appalling misjudgment, for being as guilty professionally as if he had taken the bribe.
‘I was never happy about that bathroom,’ he said. ‘When I had all the reports on my desk I was sure Mornix had changed under cover of the sofa Bob was mending, though if he did—unless he was lying down—he would have been in full view of the houses opposite. That would not have mattered provided his get-away was quick enough. But in fact not a soul in those houses at the back saw him. Yet they did see Bob.’
‘Doesn’t it clear you?’
‘No. Makes it worse. If Rachel was involved the evidence against me is stronger, not weaker.’
Then he started thinking aloud:
‘She knows I am not in Moscow. She does not know who Petrescu is. Well, that’s quite likely. The KGB is very departmentalised. No reason why she should understand what they are up to. Nor do I, damn it! They could have picked you up any time after they were certain you had no protection. Marghiloman nearly did it for them. Are you sure he was Romanian?’
‘Well, if he wasn’t he had been born and bred there.’
‘He doesn’t quite fit. The only certainty is that it’s you and the fishing fleet which interest him.’
Myself, I had found him a typical KGB man, but I could not argue with such an expert as Alwyn. I asked him where he had been for the last week.
‘In London. Always on the move. Testing my nerves. I cannot get accustomed to seeing people I used to know. I daren’t pass them in case they sense my fear.’
‘You’re still after Mornix?’
‘Mornix, my dear Willie, is certainly dead. Why should the KGB hide him and take the risk of running him out of the country when he is no use to them any more? Their only problem is disposal and a few deep-frozen packages will take care of that. No, what I want is to clear myself before I go.’
He repeated that in London he was helpless—a badly wanted man without a base or friends. He could not pick up the trail again. He could not make contact and attack.
‘By God!’ he exclaimed. ‘I’ve a mind to go back to Devon and make them come to me!’
‘How?’
‘Through Rachel. I think I might appeal to her for help. She is an old friend so it will seem natural to her. Then, when she betrays me to the KGB, the game between me and them is on.’
We saw the sun rise over the North Sea, diminishing the Channel to a blue and silver stream between white cliffs till cloud came up with the tide and turned the river of Europe to ocean with no near neighbour beyond the mist. I wanted a good insular breakfast and suggested that there was no risk if we went back a mile or two to some inland village. Alwyn allowed himself to be persuaded, but I could see what he meant when he said his nerves were none too solid. He was confident enough in the open, but the close presence of other human beings made him look undefinably guilty. I ought to have shown the same uneasiness, yet I doubt if I ever did. Lack of imagination and the conceit of youth.
I told him of my first reception at Cleder’s Priory. He laughed and said that Eudora had given him much the same account of it.
‘She really should have known better. What infuriated her was the childishness of MI5, as she thought, sending down a little foreign agent with a transparent trick to catch her out. Willie, I think it is time you broke loose from the whole affair and started on your way to becoming Adrian Gurney again.’
His advice on how to do it was alarming. He said that the KGB had obviously been ordered to find out who I was and where the devil I came from. I was of no interest to them, but they had to be sure of it.
‘So, if I were you, I should tell them the whole truth, backed by your passport, and get clear,’ he went on. ‘If they threaten to inform the police, call their bluff! I don’t see your Councillor Sokes or the police taking any very serious action.’
I was not on any account going to show the Russians my passport. My stepfather would have the blackest of black marks against him though all he had done was to take me to Egypt. However, I saw no reason why I should not insist that my name was really Ionel Petrescu and let them hunt for my relations till they gave up.
‘Suppose they know of the connection between you and me?’ I asked.
‘They can’t. There isn’t any beyond the letter which they themselves made you take down to Eudora. And why they did that God knows! All one can ever count on is that most governments would rather tell the truth if it is possible while the Russians on principle would rather tell a lie even if it isn’t possible.’
He gave me precise instructions how to get in touch with them. I was not to write or telephone or call at any of the East European embassies; if I did, I risked coming to the notice of MI5. I must use some harmless agent to deliver a message to the Russian Naval Attaché—for example, Ciampra—and I should arrange for the meeting with their emissary to be in a public place just to keep him out of any temptation to be awkward.
‘But I am sure you will have no trouble at all at a first meeting. Probably a second meeting will be suggested at which you will be questioned by someone tougher. If you then see trouble threatening, go at once to the police and ask for Special Branch! Tell them your whole story, leaving me right out of it—which is dead easy since they believe I am in Moscow.’
The more I thought of his advice, the wiser it seemed. All I regretted was that I might never see him or the Hilliards again unless it was from the public gallery in the Law Courts. He guessed what I was thinking and put his hand on my shoulder, saying that I should never lose Eudora and Tessa and that if all went well and Adrian Gurney could take time off from his sheep to go abroad, there was no one he would more gladly see.
I returned to London a little apprehensive but on the whole with a sense of relief, for there seemed to be an end in sight to all the unexpected trouble which Petrescu’s defection had caused me. Alwyn was undoubtedly right in insisting that MI5 knew all about me and that Sokes would never open his mouth. The only crime I had ever committed was faking a suicide, and that was unlikely to carry any penalty worse than a fine and a long lecture from the magistrate on wasting the time of the police.
After checking in at the Greenwich hostel—since it still seemed a reasonable precaution to have an address where I was lost among other drifting youth—I telephoned Ciampra to meet me at a Chelsea pub where his style of dressing would not be remarkable and we were unlikely to meet any of his companions. He turned up wearing my full-dress military frock. Whatcombe Street had done more damage to it than sixty years and any minor imperial campaign, for it now had a deep purple wine stain under the left breast. After the fourth beer he admitted that he had put it there as a conversation piece.
‘A bloke thought I’d nicked it and stopped me in the street,’ he said.
‘What kind of a bloke?’
‘Military Club sort of bloke. Too young to be the grandpa you said you’d got it off. So I let him see the label and all. “Most sorry to have troubled you,” he said, “and perhaps you will allow me to buy you a drink.”’
Ciampra gave a wild imitation of a real haw-haw English accent, straight from St. James’s Palace.
‘You told him where you did get it
?’
‘No. Off a mate in a pub, I said. But he knew I lived at Whatcombe Street.’
That rang a faint alarm bell. However, no harm seemed to have been done.
I explained that I had been looking into the best way to make a bit for us both out of the Mornix escape as he had suggested, and that I had had a talk with a crook newspaperman who was interested in a big story and would split with us. First he wanted to contact the Press Officer of the Russian Embassy and had given me a fiver to deliver a note to him. I didn’t want to risk that myself. I’d had a bit of an argument with the police already and was afraid I might be recognised. The fiver was his if he would hand the note in and hop it quick.
‘Want me to go like this?’ he asked.
That was what I had intended. He could well be delivering a protest from some Marxist society on the lunatic fringe.
‘It might put them on to Whatcombe Street, and we don’t want that yet,’ he warned me.
I most surely did not. But one can’t keep everything in mind all the time. Only then did I remember that the KGB knew nothing of my visit to Whatcombe Street and that any association with the place could be deadly.
‘Have you got any other clothes?’
‘Bottom of my bag, friend Willie! Any time I get nicked, it’s collar and tie for me. And I’ll never do it again, Your Worship, and God bless the kind British Police!’
He looked crumpled but almost respectable—say, a science student meeting his aunt for lunch—when I picked him up again outside Chelsea Town Hall. I gave him his fiver and the letter and—unknown to him—watched him deliver it from a safe distance. I had written in Russian:
I understand that you wish to talk to the Romanian, Ionel Petrescu, who came ashore at Folkestone on the morning of July 3rd. He is very willing to be questioned and will be in the small mammal house of the London Zoo at 4.30 on Wednesday next.
When Wednesday came I shaved off my sprouting whiskers and dressed as befitted a poor refugee trying to earn a decent living. At 4.30 I was in the small mammal house wishing I could free the little creatures nervously trotting up and down their cages much as I was—all so easily to be tamed, but heaven help the neighbours’ chickens!
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