Hitler's Spy

by James Hayward

  Hoping to learn more about the Dublin connection, Robertson instructed Owens to cultivate his new acquaintance, at the same time warning the Little Man to exercise caution. ‘Stewart is a big fellow, and very fly. I instructed Snow not to ask too many questions but to keep his eyes and ears open.’ The following week Owens visited Stewart at his office in Bevis Marks House near Aldgate, where he was ‘treated like a millionaire and plied with cigarettes’. Brandy and bonhomie aside, however, Owens inevitably regarded Stewart as a rival, and thus a potential threat.

  By curious coincidence, two days later the IRA detonated a string of bombs in the West End, the worst of which injured twelve people on Oxford Street. Ironically, no German bombs would fall on London for another seven months, and with Hitler still on a Phoney War footing the Abwehr censured the Republicans for targeting civilians. Ultimately the Emerald Isle proved a veritable mare’s nest for the German intelligence service. In an effort to re-establish wireless links with the IRA, one Ernst Weber-Drohl was dispatched with a new transmitter and $14,000. An improbable agent – as a younger man he had toured Irish fairgrounds as a wrestler-cum-weightlifter, but spoke with a thick Austrian accent and was now over sixty – Weber-Drohl dropped his klamotten in the Irish Sea while landing in the midst of a violent gale. Having struggled ashore in County Sligo, he was swiftly arrested for illegal entry and interned for the duration.

  Neither Sam Stewart nor the circus strongman proved useful to MI5. Determined to remain neutral, the Irish government denied British intelligence officers access to Weber-Drohl at Mountjoy prison. Meanwhile Owens failed to provide any useful dope on Stewart, and over the course of several weeks a microphone placed in his Aldgate office failed to pick up any incriminating conversations. In all likelihood, Owens had tipped his fellow traitor the wink.

  Blissfully unaware of Snow’s duplicity, MI5 lavished time and money on setting up a London office for the Abwehr. In order to monitor activities there, Robertson found Owens a ‘business partner’ in the form of William Rolph, a retired MI5 officer of Swiss origin, lately employed as manager of Hatchett’s, a popular restaurant on Piccadilly famed for its excellent breakfasts. Rolph duly incorporated Aeroplastics, a firm notionally engaged in battery exports to Belgium, and rented basement premises on Sackville Street, a smart Georgian thoroughfare behind Regent Street, and convenient for the MI5 office at St James’s. Rent was thirty shillings a week; Rolph, somewhat down on his luck, received a pound a day.

  Additional funds were earmarked for redecoration, verisimilitude dictating that Aeroplastics should appear to be a genuine trading company and turning a profit. Owens was tickled to death. As well as paying the rent at Marlborough Road, British intelligence would now foot the bill for his new London stelle.

  Dandy.

  Fortunately, plans to install the short-wave transmitter at Sackville Street were postponed after Snow again cast doubt on his own reliability. On 8 March, a Friday, Robertson received a call from his troublesome star agent and agreed to a meeting in Richmond that evening. Accompanied by his young wife Joan, Tar drove down by car, arriving at a pub called The Barn at six-thirty. Still dressed in uniform, he sent Joan inside to fetch Snow and Lily. Ten minutes later Owens emerged with the women and agreed to follow Robertson to a rendezvous point closer to Richmond.

  ‘I drove slowly in the direction of Richmond waiting for Snow to catch me up,’ Tar reported afterwards. ‘I noticed a car following me, the number of which unfortunately I did not take. I stopped, and the car which was following me stopped immediately behind. The young man driving it got out and went round to the back of the car, ostensibly to look at the petrol tank, but it was quite obvious that he was looking at my car through the back window. In order to get rid of him I decided to go on, and accordingly went up Richmond Hill and into Richmond Park. The car did not follow.’

  Owens had clocked the same man inside The Barn, seated by a window. Joan, too, noticed the mysterious stranger. ‘During the time that my wife was in there, this young man kept a steady watch on the car park and the road, and left some little time before Snow and Lily and my wife, leaving about two inches of beer in the bottom of his glass. This struck my wife as being most curious.’

  After discussing the incident with Guy Liddell and a Special Branch officer, Robertson concluded that the entire episode was yet another stunt, intended to demonstrate that sinister enemy agents were at large in London. ‘Snow’s reaction to the whole affair was one of complete calm, which made me wonder at the time if he was not double-crossing me.’

  Kein glas bier.

  A week later, another busy Richmond hostelry provided the venue for a far more significant contact. Situated on Friars Stile Road, The Marlborough was a large, popular pub a convenient stone’s throw from Agent Snow’s comfortable town house, and afforded the twin advantages of a sizeable beer garden and incognitious crowds. There, on the afternoon of 16 March, Owens fell into conversation with a happy-go-lucky commercial traveller named Dick Moreton. Somewhat taller than Snow, with slicked-back hair, large eyes and a dimpled chin, Moreton seemed every inch the gregarious bon vivant, conversing in loud, extrovert tones, and professing to drink nothing but gin fizz.

  For his part, Owens passed himself off as Thomas Wilson, a wealthy businessman dealing in gold, diamonds and general investment capital. ‘I had a few drinks with him, for which he refused to let me pay,’ Moreton recollected. ‘After a few minutes’ conversation he said to me, “I can see you have travelled a great deal.” He then discussed at some length the countries in which I had travelled, and he himself appeared to know intimately, including America, Canada and Germany.’

  Cosmopolitan men of the world, the two discovered a shared love of exotic cuisine such as chilli con carne. What with all the gratis gin fizz, Dick Moreton omitted to mention that his real name was Walter Dicketts, and that his broad experience on the international circuit included jail time for fraud in France and Austria, as well as a crook’s tour of America, where his collar had been felt in Chattanooga and Detroit.

  Born in 1899, the son of a city stockbroker’s clerk, Dicketts had obtained a junior commission in the Royal Naval Air Service towards the end of the Great War, followed by a period in an air-intelligence department (AI1), sifting material gathered for the Paris Peace Conference. Next, in 1919, came an undercover assignment for MI6 in Holland. Acting on personal instructions from Sir Mansfield Cumming, Dicketts shadowed the illicit resurrection of the Fokker aircraft company and was successful in locating a large cache of aero engines near Amsterdam. Or so he said. ‘He often talks of his decorations and of a bad crash,’ noted one authority, ‘of which there is no record.’

  Very much a temporary gentleman, back on civvy street Sub-Lieutenant Dicketts fell prey to hard times and bad habits. Still masquerading as a serving officer, in 1921 he was convicted of defrauding a car-hire company and was soon back in court after bouncing a cheque on Bond Street jewellers Mappin & Webb. Subsequently Dicketts served the first of several prison terms, punctuated by spells bilking widows and tourists on the Continent and a succession of shady escapades in America. Judged to be an expert and ‘very plausible’ travelling criminal by British detectives, his career touched bottom at Hampshire Assizes in November 1931, when the former spy received eighteen months’ hard labour on thirty-one counts of larceny and fraud. This remarkable spree ranged from blagging 500 gallons of aviation spirit for a motorboat on the Norfolk Broads to relieving a Manchester landlord of several gramophone records and a brand new suit: plum-coloured, single-breasted, with permanent turn-up trousers.

  To this sorry catalogue the Police Gazette could add two failed marriages, and a string of aliases including Richard Blake, Christopher Welfare and Squadron Leader G. A. Norman. In short, Walter Dicketts was an incorrigible rogue with an unfortunate knack for getting caught. Indeed, by the time ‘Dick Moreton’ attached himself to Owens at The Marlborough in March 1940 he was again on the run from the law, having bounced a £10 cheque on
a Birmingham hotel and nimbly skipped bail.

  Each man immediately set about inveigling the other. In Dicketts, Owens discerned a potential new sidekick, in financial low water and ripe for exploitation. For the seasoned confidence trickster, ‘Thomas Wilson’ was just another mark. ‘When he asked me what I did I replied that I was living on my very small means, and that I had proposed a patent for ready-made mustard in containers similar to toothpaste. Owens immediately said, “That’s an excellent idea, and if my partner agrees I’ll finance it.”’

  Squeezable mustard.

  Right hot.

  Dicketts and his patent held such promise for Owens that the pair reconvened at The Marlborough in the evening, this time joined by their wives. In truth, Kay Dicketts was no more married than was Lily. She had ‘chorus girl’ looks and a criminal record for shoplifting in Wolverhampton. Despite all these secrets and lies, the quartet became fast friends quite literally overnight. For the moment, however, Owens was content to remain Thomas Wilson, and revealed nothing of his double life as a top Nazi spy.

  ‘We spent the evening together at The Marlborough,’ said Dicketts of the wealthy dealer in diamonds and gold, ‘and at ten o’clock he invited us to play darts at his flat. We stayed until one o’clock the next morning, during which time we consumed a considerable amount of liquor.’

  Sober next morning, yet still crazy for squeezable mustard, Owens advanced Dicketts £25 and told Rolph to apply for a patent. Since emergency legislation now prohibited the importation of batteries from abroad, forcing a swift revision of the Aeroplastics business plan, the mustard idea made sense of a sort. The scheme also chimed with Owens’ long-held ambition of living off patent royalties without lifting a finger.

  Better still, Walter Dicketts just happened to own a seaworthy boat, conveniently berthed in the harbour at Dartmouth. Though B1A were able to monitor something of the pair’s developing ‘intimacy’ via hidden microphones at Marlborough Road, Robertson failed to pick up on the fact that mustard-keen newcomer Moreton might be able to connect Owens with U-boats in the Bristol Channel and the North Sea.

  Within days of meeting the two couples took off in the Ford 10 for a long weekend in the West Country, cruising on Dick’s motor launch safe from eavesdropping microphones and living high on the hog at hotels in Bournemouth and Brixham. Everywhere, it seemed, wealthy Mr Wilson was more than happy to pick up the tab. Explained Dicketts: ‘He gave me the impression that he was so overburdened with worry, work and responsibility that he had to have a confidant. Taking a liking to me, he tried me out for a fortnight and then started confiding in me.’

  While this charade was enacted, the unwanted arrival of ‘Dick Moreton’ into Snow’s irregular orbit paled beside yet another astonishing gaffe, which now threatened to bring down the entire double-cross system.

  Four months earlier MI5 had moved quickly to spike an article proposed by the Sunday Graphic, which threatened to reveal that enemy spies might be turned and exploited as double agents. Inconveniently, the system of wartime censorship in Britain was voluntary, and on 18 March the Daily Herald broke ranks to splash a more or less identical story across its back page. Beneath the arresting headline SPIES ALLOWED TO BROADCAST FROM BRITAIN – “NEWS” TO MISLEAD ENEMY PUT IN THEIR WAY, the tabloid’s unnamed ‘radio correspondent’ laid bare the secret that ‘radio stations operated by enemy agents are still working in this country – by permission of the British Secret Service.’

  The Herald’s astonishing scoop left MI5 wondering where the Fourth Estate ended and the Fifth Column began. ‘Britain’s secret radio squad has tracked down dozens of short-wave broadcasting stations worked by spies – but not all of them have been silenced. It pays to let them go on sending out their messages. The efforts of British wireless engineers and technicians have revealed many German secrets – spies and disaffected persons have been allowed to continue their activities until they have implicated their friends. Members of the radio squad tune in not to German propaganda broadcasts, such as those of Lord Haw-Haw, but to unregistered short-wave stations which transmit in Morse code.’

  The article might as well have mentioned Owens by name and printed a picture of the London stelle at 14 Marlborough Road. Ironically, the leak almost certainly stemmed from the Special Branch, where a number of officers felt deeply aggrieved that the sudden wartime expansion of MI5 had only found room for detectives from Scotland Yard. One of those snubbed was Inspector Bill Gagen, who still maintained regular contact with Snow despite having been removed from the case.

  In a perfect world, all those involved in the murky Herald exclusive would have been given a taste of Regulation 18B. However, since recalling unsold copies would serve only to confirm the truth of the story, the editor received instead a rap on the knuckles from the chief press censor, Rear Admiral George Thomson.

  Dicketts, too, suffered a professional setback. Returning from their long weekend in the West Country, Agent Snow arranged to see his new lieutenant at Sackville Street, only to learn from William Rolph that Colman’s of Norwich already sold mustard in a squeezable tube. ‘Rolph said that it was impossible to proceed with the mustard patent as it was already on the market,’ carped Dicketts. ‘I was very upset, but Owens assured me that I had nothing to worry about as he could use me in other directions and money was no object.’

  If Dicketts is to be believed, Owens chose this moment to reveal his role as a ‘key man’ in the British secret service. It is more likely, though, that this occurred in Dartmouth, and Owens already knew of Dick’s past in AI1 and MI6. Be that as it may, Snow now showed Dick his wireless transmitter and disclosed that he was acting as a double agent. Anxious not to be outdone, Dicketts laid claim to a photographic memory. ‘He asked me what money I required to work for him, and said his last man had his nerve wrecked after a long third degree by the Gestapo. He instructed me to carry on normal business under his direction as a cover. I was told not to alter my style of living, not to say a word to anyone, and not to move to any better address than Montague Road.’

  For Dicketts, business as usual meant black marketeering and long firm fraud. With mustard off the menu, he now proposed buying up bulk stocks of cheap gin and whisky, then relabelling the bottles and passing them off at inflated prices. Using Rolph’s contacts in the West End hospitality trade, Dicketts would take care of sales and distribution for £10 a week plus expenses. Much enthused by the scam, and unaware that he was himself the ultimate mark, Owens gave Dicketts £50 to pay off personal debts and a further £97 to buy cut-price spirits. Sensing easy pickings, Dick also sought to persuade Owens to invest in The Rialto, a shabby nightclub next to the Café de Paris.

  On the last Sunday in March Owens and Lily drove Dick and Kay to Brighton for a spirited joint anniversary bash. Feeling the love, or the pressure, Agent Snow grew tired and emotional. ‘The very great amount of drink he had consumed somewhat overcame him,’ said Dicketts. ‘He said that the British air successes reported are chiefly lies, our machines not nearly so successful or as fast as the Germans’. RAF casualty lists show an appalling roll of dead and wounded. Pilots are refusing to go up, and several officers had been court-martialled and shot.’

  Hitting his stride, Owens added that dissatisfaction was rife among BEF troops sent to France, and that wealthy British citizens were moving their money abroad with indecent haste. ‘Hitler has Germany solidly behind him, and the British public are being consistently fooled. He then spoke out for peace and said that nationalities did not count.’

  As if to emphasise the point, Owens announced that he would be travelling to Germany on 4 April. ‘He told me Germany was certain to win the war and that he and Lily were going there to live as soon as his work was complete in England.’ Owens added that as chief of the German secret service in Britain he could call on two million pounds. ‘He said, be loyal to me and you’ll be on the winning side, generously provided for all your life. I said I didn’t want to do anything against the British Empire.�
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  Dicketts may or may not have been genuinely conflicted. Too old to join up, and reduced to living hand-to-mouth in a shabby furnished room, the impecunious fraudster found himself torn between a frayed sense of patriotic duty and a pressing need to make money. Reporting Owens to the authorities might count for something at the Air Ministry, might even lead to gainful employment with restitution of rank. Then again, turning the Little Man in was complicated by the small matter of an outstanding arrest warrant in Birmingham.

  Dick felt squeezed, like mustard in a tube. Deciding to infiltrate Snow’s Nazi spy gang deeper still, the con artist became a supremely untrustworthy V-man. With Owens due to fly out to Brussels on Thursday – apparently en route to Berlin – the next few days would surely prove highly revealing. Indeed, detailed notes kept by Dicketts offer up a unique insight into a day in the life of a low-level spy in wartime London.

  On Wednesday morning Dick collected the Little Man from Marlborough Road and drove into central London. ‘At the office he told me to take a taxi and arrange the whisky and gin. Rolph was arranging with a printer to print new labels for the bottles. Whilst walking down Sackville Street I noticed one and then a second taxi draw out slowly. I therefore went into the Yorkshire Grey Hotel in Piccadilly, ordered a drink, came out, and jumped into another taxi. Watching carefully through the back window I saw the two taxis, following at intervals. To see if I could get a view of the occupants I told my taxi to stop at the Phoenix in Palace Street. As he pulled up he said, “You are being tailed, guvnor.” I thanked him and said I was on government service.’

  Electing to return to Sackville Street, Dick warned Owens that he had been followed. Owens disposed of the problem with a call to the Branch. The two men then drove to Euston, where Owens was to meet Charles Eschborn off the train from Manchester. ‘The agent was introduced to me as Charlie,’ continued Dicketts. ‘He was obviously a German and appeared to be very scared. We went back to the office and I was asked to leave the room for ten minutes, which I did. On my return I saw on the table a large pile of photographic enlargements of docks, airports and buildings such as factories. On the top of the photos was a minute roll of film. The photographs were put away, and Owens remarked that they were very good.’