[2017] What Happened in Vienna, Jack?

by Daniel Kemp

  “What a spy you must have been, Jack.” He smiled at that, but kept whatever reaction he had to himself.

  Chapter Four

  Leonard Miller

  We left the wine bar with its dark mysteries undisturbed after finishing a rather good bottle of Beaujolais, then doubled back on ourselves towards Old Compton Street.

  “Let's eat, Pat! By the time we finish a good slap-up meal, Alhambra's club will have opened and you can start on that journey of yours.” Without another a word we suddenly turned abruptly left into a dead-end alleyway, and stopped.

  “You thinking that we're being followed, Jack?” I asked, “I haven't noticed anyone.”

  “You wouldn't if they were good, Pat. And if they were super good they'd know that this place leads nowhere, so they wouldn't turn in here. But I don't warrant the super good anymore.”

  The regret in that admission was covered by a contrived smile that now lined his forehead and creased his mouth. Almost a minute passed before he spoke again.

  “Simple precautions can save lives, young Patrick. Your man will be at our next port of call. We need to be cautious. If it's true that Alhambra does indeed run the porn industry then Miller has his hands deep inside his pockets. He sits alone every night at the same table just inside the doorway of the restaurant we're going to use. I use the place regularly. Sometimes he will just nod his head at me, but occasionally he will speak. Tonight, if he does, you will say nothing nor look at him. Just stand silently on my left side looking straight in front. I will say that you're a person I met a few days ago and leave it at that. If he invites us to sit, which I very much doubt, you will excuse yourself, saying you need the Gents as you have an upset stomach. Stay in there for at least ten minutes. He's normally gone by a quarter to nine on the dot for his journey home to his wife and three children in Blackheath. He has a very grand looking place there. He's a fool, Pat, but not a stark raving idiot. He'll smell you out as plod if you get too close. His name is Leonard Miller; Detective Chief Superintendent at West End Central nick. High cheese as you said and a tough target to hit, but if you are as passionate about all this as I believe you are, then you will find a way. Ready?” he asked as we departed from our lonely alleyway.

  “No one following us then, Jack?” I asked.

  “Seems not, Pat,” phlegmatically he replied.

  * * *

  He was a big man, but it was not until he left that I saw his overall build. The first, and the only thing I saw, as I stood where Jack had told me, were his feet. They were enormous!

  “You're looking very smart tonight, Jack. Out on the town, are we?” asked a gruff, guttural, cockney voice as we entered.

  “Something like that, Leonard. We will be at the Guitar later. Will you be in there tonight?”

  “Nah! I'll be home with the trouble and strife soon. She misses me rotten if I'm away for too long. Have a nice evening with your friend, and say hello to the maestro for me if you get a chance, Jack.” He was too busy with his meal to glance at me.

  We sat a table at the far end of the half empty restaurant with my back turned to where the detective chief superintendent was seated. I caught sight of him as a reflection in the emblazoned Restaurant 'Da Fiono' windows. Wide shouldered, much taller than average with a head of hair that betrayed his age. From his rank, I had deduced that he must have passes fifty, but the thickness of his grey hair, swept back behind his ears, was that of a much younger man. He stood as an athlete would, straight with no slouch of any kind and looked light on his feet. He was dressed immaculately, but seemingly with no pockets of his own unless he had paid before our arrival, as he offered no money to the waiter who obsequiously brushed the front of his suit jacket. He made no sign to us as he left, right on the time that Jack said he would.

  “You are a very observant man and one for precise details, Jack. Did that come from over here or the time you spent abroad on HM business?”

  “Never gave that much thought. Both would be right in their own way,” he replied as a waiter hovered to take our order. I took a menu but had not finished with Jack at that point.

  “What would you like to do first, Jack? Tell me how you started that work you did over on foreign soil, or about Alhambra and that man who's just left?”

  “As I told you, the man who just left is a fool, but he'll take some catching. I'll give you his full address in Blackheath Park later. He has the first floor as his family home, but look at the deeds lodged with Land Registry. The Millers own the whole building and the one at the back of the plot that's being built. The construction company is not in his name but it's his all the same. Take a drive out there one day if the urge grabs you, and see if you could buy that place and maintain his lifestyle on the salary he draws. He would probably say that his wife is on the game as his way of explaining it. He's not your worry, though. Alhambra is another kettle of fish all told.

  He fought on the Nazi side in Spain during the Civil War, taking that name from the palace in Grenada. He was born to English parents in India. Very good breeding with better-placed connections than most. He was one of the first Nazi sympathisers I came across when I started work for those inside the SIS whilst still at school. Again, you must control that enthusiasm of yours. Order some grub first. We might have a long night in front of us. We'll talk as we eat, but first some more vino to smooth my throat. Un chianti per favore, Alfonso. Il tuo migliore, come il mio amico sta pagando.”

  “Learn Italian in Italy, Jack?” naively I asked.

  “Somewhere colder than that, Pat! Learned it when I was in Austria. I had a teacher who had a huge wood-burning stove going all day and every day. Sometimes I sat on it until my arse was cooked. Outside it was cold enough to freeze the balls off brass monkeys. I even heard them fall sometimes!” I was getting used to his humour and that smile of his.

  The bottle was served, uncorked, sniffed and tasted, then when approved poured into the appropriate glasses. He excused himself from the table to wash his hands, leaving me alone with my thoughts. His return coincided with the arrival of the first offerings of food.

  “Was it simply my persuasive powers that led you to agree to helping so much, Jack, or something more than that? After all, I only asked you to change a few written words. We didn't have to do all this tonight.”

  “Why not tonight? I was hungry anyway and you're paying, I've already told the waiter that.” It was my turn to laugh which I did gladly.

  “I think I can see a bit of me in you, Patrick. I was eager to help my country at your age, do the best I could in flying the flag. Patriotism, idealisms of freedom from oppression and all that shit drove me on. For me, at that time, the establishment stood in the way and shut me out. Ever seen and read the inscription on Edith Cavell's statue opposite the Portrait Gallery? She was a spy, you know. Ran a small but significant group from a Belgium hospital in the First World War where she worked. We made a great propaganda thing out of the firing squad death. Used photographs of her on recruiting posters. That is something we're good at; turning the truth our way at pressing times. Barrington's name is enough of an incentive to wind me up and start the motor running again. Enjoy the ride while you can, but learn where the brake pedal is, and check that it works every so often, Pat.”

  Not having heard him elaborate on any statement so much as that before, I wondered why now there was a necessity.

  Chapter Five

  The Savoy

  “I was a page at the Savoy Hotel when I was fifteen, Patrick. My dad had died the year before and although I was in a grammar school with ambitions of perhaps making it into a university, Mum needed the extra money that I could provide with that job. I was a bit ruthless in those days; it was the tips I was really after. Saw the advert at the bottom of a newspaper I was delivering on my paper round one morning and applied straight away. I had to bunk off school to get there. The only qualifications it said that were needed was you had to be clean and not too tall. I passed on both those counts. I think the
man who was in charge was called Snow, but it could have been Scott. Nearly forty years have flown past since I was given that first pair of white gloves. They gave you three pairs a day you know, so none got dirty or grubby. Good little earner, that job! Bit wearing on the old feet, though. Must have walked miles each day through the corridors and reception halls. There were eight of us, I think, delivering messages or going out for cigarettes or flowers for the guests. Gave you a cloak to wear if you had to go outside through the main doors. Great fun I tell you, especially if it was an American guest you were going out for.

  They tipped well, but no one tipped like a US celebrity. Had a few in my day. Don't ask me for their names as most of them I'd never heard of, but Mr Snow, or whatever his name was, said they were really important and to look after them. Added a big wink when he said that. That was enough for me. I do remember one celeb, a young girl, a year or so younger than me who was over here to sing on the stage at the Adelphi. She was with her parents and every morning I was instructed to take breakfast to her room. I was the only one allowed to do that. Her mother gave me two tickets to the show, and, don't faint, a five-pound note! More than a year's wage. I went with my mum, who was so proud of me knowing this American girl that she told all our street that she was off to the theatre to see Judy Garland. She bought a hat for the occasion from that fiver. My mum would fill a hot bath tub every night for me after that for my sore feet. She and I feasted well on the strength of my tips and the stories I told about who I'd met at Savoy.”

  “Was it at the Savoy that you were first approached to work for the secret mob, Jack?”

  “Observe and listen, they were the first orders I received, Pat. That's all we want you to do. So said Mr Stewart Campbell, my first handler in early 1933. He wanted me to pin my ears back for mentions about Germany and the name of Hitler in particular. Then they wanted more. They always did! I was promoted in-house a year later to the reception desk and that's where Alhambra comes into the equation, although, he wasn't called that then, of course. Trenchard came a few weeks later. 'The Strummer' was Alhambra's code name between Campbell, Trenchard and me, and I was to handle him carefully, they told me. Taking note of callers, telephone numbers if I could, along with which guests he mostly spoke to or mingled with. Trenchard was a junior at Five then. I called him a runner as he was always in a hurry to get somewhere else. He passed on instructions from Campbell and sometime later one of them ordered me to enlist in the Blackshirts of Sir Oswald Mosely. I was on my way to one of the rallies held in the East-End, calling for him to be released from internment, when I came across that man at Whitechapel with the gun. I knocked him out, but my cover was blown in Mosely's New Party so they assigned me elsewhere. I was sent to a Royal Naval yard to work in order to unearth a Communist spy, but I can't tell you of that. Mind you, by that time I had every name signed up to Mosley's way of thinking, some would blow your mind wide open, Pat. What I will say is that I told Campbell about John Cairncross way before his name cropped up with Burgess and the other lot from Cambridge. Dropped Victor Rothschild's name on his lap as well, but what I said was ignored because, as I said before, I never lived in Guildford and only went to a common old grammar school. I was not one of the chaps. Wrong side of the country for inclusion into their club.”

  “Why would they wipe your file clean from 1948 if you didn't finish with them until '53? That doesn't make sense unless you did some really important covert stuff for them and they wanted to hide you.”

  There was a wide smile from Jack as he finished picking at his food, neatly placing his knife and fork beside each other and laying them diagonally across his half eaten meal. At first, I thought the smile was because the pasta he'd had and the wine he'd drunk both met with his approval, but there was another reason.

  “Do you remember me saying that the chair you paid so much attention to was given to me when I retired from the service, Pat?” I nodded in agreement. “Well, that wasn't entirely true. I took it as my going away present! Walked out the office, past a startled janitor and boarded a bus carrying it. A right two and eight of a mess I made of it on that bus, I can tell you. The conductor said it was too big, but it wasn't at an angle. I only travelled as far as the train station and he let me ride on the platform with it. Caught the train into Marylebone then had to walk all the way home to Baker Street with it across my back. It has been everywhere with me since then. Had it re-covered more times than I can recall. Did you wonder why it has three sides?” he asked. To which I replied that I had.

  “Barrington brought it in with him one day. Wanted to make some derogatory gesture in front of all the others, put me in my place kind of thing. Said that one side was us, the Brits, one the Americans and the other represented the Russians. But although I asked him what he meant by that, he wouldn't say. Trenchard was by then in Special Branch, heading up 'A' department; internal affairs. Sort of rubber-heel mob, creeping around with their noses up each other's arse. They were amateurs, Patrick. Made loads of noise and unnecessary commotion. I was under surveillance by them. When I complained, I was informed that I was suspected of having been turned in Vienna, where I had diligently served my country. They had no evidence of that, because it had never happened, but I was told it was—standard practices, old chap. We use the same procedure on everyone who has returned from foreign lands. We suspect first and regret the inconvenience later; if we must! and don't take it personally. But I did, in a big way! Can you see the irony in all of this?”

  I answered that I couldn't and he'd left me behind somewhere. As two glasses of Marsala were delivered to our table that I had not seen Jack order, he explained how he had come to that conclusion.

  “There you are, a university graduate helping another graduate to bring down another who has enjoyed privilege, but having to engage me, an old washed-up spy from the wrong side of the bed. One whose affiliations were once questioned but never answered.” He tasted his wine as I tasted mine before continuing.

  “Trenchard needs not only you but me too, Patrick. On your own, I doubt the two of you would have got close. Even if I'm wrong you most certainly would not have any inside knowledge of Miller so soon. From him there must be a direct money trail to Alhambra. The trouble for Barrington is yet to be revealed, but it will be, believe me. I will introduce you to the ultimate prey right after we drink up and leave. That's where things will start to get hairy. A simple point I would like to raise before we set about our quest. How do you suppose a known fascist who still advocates his hatred of Jews and all blacks, yellows and browns can get a licence to run a club in London? Let's forget about his trade in pornographic books and concentrate on why he's not locked up for his political statements. Whose pockets do you think he's lining?”

  “Could be freedom of speech, Jack? Something along those lines, perhaps?”

  “If only! Soho might be a closed shop to outsiders, but it's nothing compared to Freemasons, Westminster and the law, Pat. You're on a loser, my son. You're the tethered lamb to bring out the snakes while the lions gorge on the buffalo around the next bend. If you want my advice, which you haven't asked for but nevertheless will get, then call it in now. There's a phone box we pass before we get to his club. It's never been raided, not even Barrington would dare to do that.”

  “Why, Jack? That would seem the obvious place to start.” Another smile preceded his reply.

  “You are an ant in this world, Patrick. You are expected to show the corruption in the police that every Tom, Dick and Harry walking the streets of London know about. Appease the public mind. You are not expected to find politicians having it off in the back rooms of a Nazi's club in the Capital on a Friday night whilst claiming allowances for legitimate entertainment. Follow Miller's money lodged in his local bank under his sister's name of Carolyn McKay; her husband, incidentally, is the MP for Darlington. Call in the Sweeney, Pat. Tell them you believe there's an IRA gunman in the Guitar. Use whatever your Kilburn cover name was and they'll come running. Then comes t
he hard bit. You'll have to get away. Out of the Job and far gone. You look perplexed at that, why? You don't believe me?”

  “Can't see that I'd be a pariah by outing the corrupted, Jack. Just can't see that at all!”

  “No, you're not as cynical as me. Do you know who's the Member of Parliament for Herne Bay, Pat? But don't worry, they won't arrest him. The Prime Minister has a green pass on sex. You might be made Commissioner overnight, or you might not. Depends on how much they value your silence. Don't just settle for a chair, Patrick, idiotic ideals are worth more than that. Go somewhere abroad. America would be my choice. More liberal minded over there. Write a book about it all and get it accepted into Hatchards. They have Royal patronage, with three Royal warrants displayed announcing their self-importance. But if they try to slam a D notice on it here in England you'll have no worries as you will have readers crawling all over you in the States. I never had the bottle, nor the intelligence to do that and it's too late now.”

  “What happened in Vienna, Jack? Were you turned?”

  Chapter Six

  Saturday In London