‘Hang on a minute,’ Gregory said quickly. ‘I’ve only just got back to England from Budapest where I’ve been living for the last three years. Some people out there particularly wished me to get in touch with you.’
‘What people?’ came the suspicious answer.
‘Really, Mr. Archer,’ Gregory protested. ‘I’d rather not mention any names on the telephone, but I’ve some very important messages for you from my Hungarian friends which must be delivered by word of mouth. Surely you can guess the subject on which they want to communicate with you when I tell you that they live in Pest, on the left bank of the river.’
‘Oh; all right, then,’ said the voice on a slightly different note. ‘Is the matter urgent?’
‘Yes, I’d like to see you this evening if possible.’
‘Can you come down here?’
‘Yes.’
‘All right then; make it nine o’clock.’
‘Thanks.’ Gregory rang off.
At nine o’clock he was bowling along in a taxi a mile south of Westminster Bridge. The effect of the black-out was partially nullified by the moon, which was in its last quarter but shone in an almost clear sky, turning the few patches of low cloud a lightish-grey against which the blimps of the balloon barrage could be clearly seen in black silhouette. The taxi turned left from the main Kennington Road into a wide street of houses whose short gardens were fenced in on either side by iron palings.
In spite of the moonlight the taximan would have had some difficulty in finding No. 65 Walshingham Terrace, as the semicircular fanlights above the doors of the houses, which carried their numbers, were now all curtained for the black-out, had it not been for a steel-helmeted A.R.P. Warden who gave them directions; but having found the house Gregory got out, telling the man to wait.
The houses on either side of the street consisted of a solid block, but they were substantial, well-built affairs constructed in late Georgian or early Victorian times when Kennington was a well-to-do suburb, within easy reach of the City and Strand at a time when there were as yet no cars, tubes or motor-buses to enable business people to live further afield.
The district had gone down but the properties were well kept up, for Walshingham Terrace formed part of the London estate which is the patrimony of the Prince of Wales as Duke of Cornwall, and during his twenty years as holder of that title the Duke of Windsor had proved an exceptionally good landlord.
Striding up the short garden-path Gregory mounted a few steps and rang the bell. The door was opened to him by a thin-faced, intelligent-looking woman wearing heavy shoes and severe clothes, and having her grey hair smoothed flatly back. Gregory remembered vaguely that the Marxist leader had married an L.C.C. school-teacher, so this was evidently Mrs. Archer.
On his giving his name she said that her husband was expecting him and that if he would go right through he would find him in the back room; and as she made way for Gregory to pass her she called out loudly: ‘Tom! Here’s Mr. Baird to see you.’
A gruff voice called back through the door: ‘All right, Ellen, tell him to come in,’ and advancing down the passage, Gregory opened the door of a room that was evidently used as a study.
Archer was a big, burly man in his late fifties, who had probably been very strong in his youth but had now run to fat from lack of exercise. He was seated behind a small, square desk littered with papers, ash-trays, pipes and all sorts of other impedimenta.
The glance he threw at Gregory was not particularly amiable but Gregory liked the look of him for all that. There was something downright and honest about his big face with its powerful jutting chin. He smiled in his most friendly fashion, therefore, and said:
‘It’s very nice of you to see me, Mr. Archer. May I sit down?’
‘Sure!’ Archer, pointed with his pipe-stem to a well-worn arm-chair. ‘So you’re just back from Hungary, are you? Have much trouble in getting through?’
‘Trouble doesn’t describe it,’ said Gregory, with a grin, ‘because although I couldn’t say so on the ’phone it’s Germany I’ve just come back from.’
Archer raised his heavy, black eyebrows and a glint of suspicion crept into his eyes as he inquired: ‘What about those friends of yours in Budapest, then?’
Gregory shrugged. ‘I’m afraid they’re just as mythical as my stay in Hungary, but that doesn’t really affect the matter. Things are much more interesting in Gemany at the moment, and it’s there that I’ve been in touch with certain friends of yours.’
‘Indeed? Who, may I ask?’
‘Herr Rheinhardt, at Traben-Trabach, for one.’
‘Never heard of him.’
‘Pastor Wachmuller, of Ems, for another.’
‘I’ve never heard of him, either.’
‘Well; that’s not particularly surprising because, as you know the three anti-Nazi groups in Germany have agreed to sink their differences and act together. Your friends would naturally be among the German Marxists, whereas Rheinhardt and Wachmuller were both Social Democrats. Still it was they who gave me your name.’
‘For what purpose?’
‘So that those of us here in England who sympathise with the anti-Nazi movement in Germany can get together and give them all the support we can.’
Archer shook his head. ‘I’m afraid you’ve come to the wrong shop, Mr. Baird. I don’t know anything about anti-Nazi movements.’
Gregory smiled. ‘I can quite understand your reticence, Mr. Archer, but perhaps this will convince you of my bona fides.’ For fear that his pockets might be picked he had had the overlap at the thick end of his silk tie partially sewn up as a safe place in which to carry the precious swastika. Undoing his waistcoat, he produced the swastika and held it out, hoping for an immediate reaction, but he was disappointed.
Archer glanced down at the symbol without betraying any sign of interest or recognition. ‘What’s that thing got to do with it?’ he asked. It’s a swastika turned the wrong way round isn’t it?’
‘No; as a matter of fact it’s the right way round—and the symbol of peace which opens all doors among the right-thinking.’ Gregory paused; he had used the phrase which he had heard from both Rheinhardt and Wachmuller, but still Archer remained entirely unmoved. He went on, therefore:
‘You know as well as I do that certain high officers of the German Army are preparing a putsch against the Nazi leaders with a view to establishing a new German Government freely elected by the German people; their object being to bring about an honourable and speedy peace.’
‘Glad to hear it,’ said Archer.
‘And it’s up to us,’ Gregory continued, ’to give them every support that we possibly can when the time comes.’
‘I see. But how d’you propose to give them any assistance now that we’re at war with Germany? However much we may wish to help the honest German working-folk to turn out this gang of Nazi blackguards, our hands are tied.’
‘Not altogether,’ said Gregory, trying a new bluff. ‘When I was in Germany I was talking to General Gra … damn it! What is the fellow’s name?’
‘Ask me another!’ replied Archer, unhelpfully.
‘Good Lord! I’ll forget my own name next! You must know the man I mean; he was a close friend of Baron von Fritsch who died the other day. Why, I had it right on the tip of my tongue just now!’
‘You did, eh? Well, perhaps you’re right, and you will forget your own name next. At the present moment you call yourself Joe Baird.’
Gregory saw that he was right up against a stone wall, so he did the only possible thing and said, with a rueful grin:
‘Mr. Archer, I congratulate you. You must forgive me trying to pump you, but it’s my job to try to do so. My name isn’t Baird, and what it really is doesn’t matter for the moment. Nevertheless, it’s quite true that I’ve been in Germany since the war began, and that I did meet there certain people who were definitely plotting to bring about the downfall of the Nazi Government. That is to your interest and to mine, so we ought
to work together.’
‘It remains to be seen what interests you represent.’
‘I represent the British Government, who are prepared not only to give every aid in their power to any movement made by the German Army in collaboration with the German people to overthrow the Hitler regime, but also to guarantee a just peace to Germany.’
‘A capitalist peace, huh? A settlement which would enable the bankers to make big loans to Germany on reasonable security and place the German industrialists on the necks of the German workers instead of the Nazis. No, thanks!’
‘You’re wrong, Mr. Archer. It would be a peace made by the freely elected representatives of the German people.’
Archer shook his head. ‘I’m having no truck with this rotten, Imperialist Government of ours; and they know it. You’re wasting your time, Mr. whatever-your-name-is, so I think you’d better be getting along now. I’ve got a lot of work to do.’
‘Now, wait a minute,’ Gregory pleaded. ‘You are an Englishman, aren’t you?’
‘No, sir. I was born in this country and I’ve lived here most of my life, but I don’t regard myself as an Englishman. I’m a human being; just like all the other human beings up and down the world of whatever race or colour they may be. You were about to appeal to my patriotism, weren’t you? Well, you can save your breath because I’m not a patriot. It’s because people are wrongly brought up to get all hot under the collar about the countries in which they were born and to take pride in the fact that their forefathers have killed thousands of people born in other countries, that the world’s in the rotten state that it is today. It’s crazy, narrow nationalism and capitalist interests which are the sole cause of Germany, Poland, France and ourselves having once more been plunged into the hideous legalised mass-murder we call war.’
‘All right,’ Gregory shrugged, ‘have it your own way. Personally, I honestly believe there’s a lot in what you say, but unfortunately the world’s not yet sufficiently educated to accept your doctrine of Internationalism, and in the meantime we’ve got to make the best of a bad job. At least you’ll admit that life for the working-classes is infinitely better in every way in Britain and France than it is under Nazi rule, and our first job is to restore a reasonable degree of freedom to the German people. When we’ve done that, it’ll be quite time enough to talk about abolishing Nationalism.’
‘Nothing,’ boomed Archer; ‘nothing can justify any Government’s plunging its people into a new war.’
‘There, I’m afraid we differ, but we’ve got to face cold, hard facts. Four Governments have plunged their countries into war and it’s up to you and me and every right-thinking person to try to stop the slaughter as soon as we possibly can. The Democracies will make no peace until the Nazis are destroyed. You’re in possession of certain information which might help us to destroy them. I appeal to you once more, therefore, to tell me everything you know about this anti-Nazi conspiracy in order that the British Government may assist our friends abroad.’
‘It’s no good. I’ve told you that I don’t know anything, and if I did I wouldn’t tell you.’
Gregory’s lean face went flinty. ‘In that case it’s my unpleasant duty to remind you that the Government can take certain steps under the Emergency Powers Act. I am convinced that you are withholding information which might aid the Government in the successful prosecution of the war. Do you wish me to have a warrant issued for your arrest?’
Archer suddenly sat back, thrust his hands in his pockets and bellowed with laughter.
‘Come off it, man! You can’t frighten me. Putting me in gaol on a charge which couldn’t be substantiated would cause much too much excitement in the Press. Even if you do, I don’t mind. I’ve been in prison plenty of times for inciting to riot, and the usual sorts of charges the capitalists use as bludgeons on any man who tries to secure a fair deal for the underdog. You can do what you like, but I’m not talking, and if it’d get rid of you any sooner I’d tell you why.’
‘Go ahead,’ said Gregory; ‘I’d be interested to hear.’
‘Well, it’s this way. Supposing I have got friends among the German Marxists. There’s no harm in admitting that; it’s common knowledge. All right. I tell you who they are and what do you do? Instruct some of your secret agents in Germany to get in touch with them. Your intentions may be all right, but what’s the result? My friends are already watched night and day by the Gestapo. Some blundering fool of a British officer in a Tyrolese hat and plus-fours suddenly turns up in a slum street is Essen, Düsseldorf or Charlottenburg. The Gestapo see him haw-hawing with my friends and what’s the next thing that happens? They bung my friends in a concentration – camp, or worse. Nothing doing, thank you! You go and tell that to whoever sent you.’
Gregory felt as guilty as though Archer had accused him personally of such unwitting betrayals. Both Rheinhardt and Wachmuller had paid the penalty of his rash indiscretion. The truth of Archer’s argument could not be gainsaid and he felt sorry for the Marxist, but he had his job to do. It was a rotten job; a dirty piece of business; but nations were more important than individuals and Archer must be made to talk. Catching his eye Gregory held it as he said slowly:
‘Pearl Wyburn’s a pretty girl, isn’t she?’
Archer stiffened perceptibly as he replied: ‘What’s she got to do with this?’
‘Quite a lot. She’s the daughter of a very old friend of yours, isn’t she? When she became an orphan you more or less adopted her and have treated her like your own child ever since. She was a bit difficult to handle because she was so darned good-looking and obviously not cut out for a job in a factory or an office. I’ve been at some pains to find out all about her, you see. She knew she was beautiful, too, and hard-headed little hussy that she is she was quite determined to use her beauty to get on in the world. Naturally she likes pretty clothes, and as she hasn’t got much brain she did the obvious thing and got herself a job as a mannequin. But mannequins don’t earn very much and in their private lives they’re not allowed to wear the clothes that they display. In consequence she over-spends herself and you come to the rescue in order to keep her straight. If it weren’t for you it’s pretty certain that little gold-digging Pearl would have become the mistress of one of her rich admirers long before this, but you’ve fought tooth and nail although she now costs you far more than you can afford. As her taste for luxury has grown you’ve had to ante-up more and more money, because the girl is a sort of obsession with you. I’m not going to state categorically that you’ve raided your Party funds, but since you’ve been paying the rent of that luxury flat of hers at Bryanston Court I should think it’s highly probable. In any case, when the balloon goes up and the Party accounts are examined we shall find out whether you’ve been soaking the Party for her keep.’
Archer’s big face was suffused with colour. ‘What the hell d’you mean?’ he roared.
‘Simply this,’ Gregory replied with sudden, deliberate viciousness, ‘if you refuse to talk I’m going to see to it that your colleagues are informed that Pearl is your mistress and that you’ve been keeping her for years.’
‘That’s a damned lie!’
‘I know it is, my dear fellow, but what about it?’
‘I’ll have you for slander,’ Archer thundered. ‘It’s one thing to make such accusations and another to prove them.’
‘Of course; but I shall succeed in doing both.’
‘You dirty, blackmailing swine! You know damned well she’s a decent girl and that to suggest that a man of my age had been living with her would wreck her reputation. She’d never live it down.
‘I know. And I’m very sorry for her. But it’ll be your fault if she has to face this scandal, and it would be particularly inconvenient just now, wouldn’t it? You see, I happen to know that she’s got her hooks into Lord Bellingham’s son, Ollie Travers, and looks like landing him.’
‘So you know that, do you? Then for God’s sake give the girl a chance. He’s a decent lad, even
if he is an officer in the Guards. It’s a filthy lousy trick to threaten me with breaking up her prospects of a happy marriage.’
‘Oh, it’s sheer, unadulterated blackmail, I quite agree.’
‘All right then; go ahead. By no possible means can you prove this damned lie so I’ll get a judgement against you and clear her that way. Stink or no stink!’
‘But I can prove it.’ Gregory quietly took the photograph from his pocket and passed it across the desk. ‘Have a look at that, Mr. Archer.’
The photograph had been faked by an expert who knew his job and although it had taken some days to procure the best possible results it had not been difficult to secure the necessary material. As Pearl Wyburn was a mannequin well known in the West End innumerable photographs of her in all sorts of costumes had been easily available from the fashion houses for which she worked. The one selected showed the attractive, long-limbed fair-haired mannequin with very little on except some delightful undies. Archer himself was, of course a public figure, so that it had been equally easy to obtain scores of photographs of him from the Fleet Street agencies, and one had been chosen in which he was seen relaxing, coatless and hatless, after addressing a big northern meeting on a hot day.
The two photographs had been skilfully blended into a specially-taken background with a bedroom setting. Pearl, in her undies, was standing near a tumbled bed, while Archer stood close by in his shirt-sleeves, smiling at her. On a side-table near-by stood an opened magnum of champagne, two half-filled glasses, cigarettes and chocolates. A valuable mink coat in which Pearl had once been photographed for a catalogue was thrown carelessly over an arm-chair. Altogether it was a most skilful and artistic production.
‘Secret Life of Noted Marxist,’ murmured Gregory. ‘Man of Sixty Keeps Twenty-Two-Year-Old Glamour-Girl in Luxury Flat. How d’you like it?’
After one glance at the photograph Archer sprang to his feet, banged his fist on the desk and bawled: ‘You dirty, double-crossing crook! I’ll have the law on you for this!’
The Scarlet Impostor Page 22