When he reached the port headquarters building, the sentry had evidently been told to expect him and handed him straight over to a messenger, who led him through a series of highly polished corridors and entered, without knocking, past a door marked “Private”.
This gave onto an anteroom where two naval officers were sitting: one a middle-aged commander, the other a very young sublieutenant. Their desks were so placed that no one could enter through the door beyond without squeezing past them.
The messenger looked at the older man, who nodded without speaking. Then the messenger knocked at the inner door, opened it without waiting for an answer, and held it for Luke.
Feeling by this time slightly dazed, Luke went in. He had seen Admiral Manfred once before and recognised his smooth helmet of white hair and his red, salt-cured face. He remained seated behind his desk, but motioned to Luke to take the chair opposite him and said, speaking fairly brusquely, “If, Mr. Pagan, you’ve been wondering why you’ve been accorded a red-carpet reception, I should explain that I’ve had a letter about you from Commander Hall.” A pause; then, “It seems he found you on a rock.”
This made Luke laugh, and the atmosphere seemed a little easier.
“He told me that you were attached to a security outfit he knew all about and that, in certain circumstances, we might find you useful. In short, that if you had anything to tell me, I was to listen to you. I’m listening.”
Luke compressed his activities of the last ten days into as short and comprehensible a form as he could manage. When he had finished, he added, “Of course, I’ve been keeping my own people in the picture.”
“Who do you report to?”
“Directly, to a man called Daines. Through him to Captain Kell.”
“Vernon Kell?”
“Yes.”
“Which means MO5.”
“Right, sir.”
The admiral thought about this for a long moment while he chivvied a bronze monkey around the desk with the blunt end of a pencil. Then he said, “Since you’ve asked to see me urgently, do I gather that something has happened since your last report went in?”
“Yes, sir, it has. On Saturday night, for the first time, I got a full message. I’ve written them both down. The incomplete one I told you about and the full one, so you can see the differences.”
The admiral pinned the papers down with the brass monkey and inspected them one after the other. Then he said, “Yes. I see. By the code – as you’ve explained it – this would mean that a destroyer has come in since Wednesday and two submarines have gone out.”
“That’s as I read it, sir.”
The admiral pressed his bell twice and said to the sublieutenant who came in, “Go down to the dock office, Philip, and get me copies of the Daily State for the past seven days.”
The sublieutenant looked as though he was going to salute, thought better of it, and departed.
“You can’t imagine,” said the admiral, “how long it took me to convince that young man that he was in an office and not on a ship. I had to threaten to fine him half a crown every time he said, ‘Aye aye, sir.’ Now, to business. Do you know anything about Zeppelins?”
“Not a lot, sir.”
“Nor do I. But I do know that you don’t steer them like a motorcar. They don’t jink about. You set them on a certain course and it takes them time and effort to change onto another one. For the past two months those Zeppelins have been appearing, twice a week and directly overhead. How do you suppose they got there?”
“Set a compass course,” said Luke, hoping to sound intelligent.
“Unlikely. Being the size and shape they are, they’re very responsive to wind forces. If they come from the Holstein peninsula, where most of them are built and launched, they could steer southwest by keeping the northern coast of Europe in sight, but sooner or later they’d have to launch out across the Channel. That’s where they could easily be diverted by wind pressure from a set course. Coming at night, what they’d really need is a light to aim at. So, next question. Where is the major’s bedroom?”
“I’ve never been able to see his light go on when he goes to bed, so I assume it’s at the back of the house.”
“Quite. Then his bedroom window, or perhaps the attic above it, would be an ideal place to set a guiding light, which will be even more necessary to them after this evening, since I intend to enforce a blackout in the port. A practice measure, you understand. Should war be declared, it will, of course, become permanent.”
“Won’t the government impose a general blackout?”
“Interference with the liberty of the subject. Tricky matter. Maybe in a few months’ time, when they’ve had a few bombs dropped on them. Until then, Major Richards is free to turn on any lights he chooses.”
“I think,” said Luke, “that if that’s the truth, the sooner he’s behind bars the better.”
“I agree,” said the admiral. “But there are difficulties.”
Before he could say what they were, he was interrupted by the return of the sublieutenant with a small clip of papers. The admiral said, “Thank you, Philip,” and he departed, as slowly as he dared. Clearly, he longed to find out what was going on.
When the door was shut, the admiral, flicking through the papers, said, “Thursday, one destroyer came in. It and the other two will be going out as soon as repairs are finished. They’re all wanted for the grand fleet review next Saturday. Two submarines left on Friday, for the Mediterranean. Very well. I agree. That appears to confirm your reading. But we’ve still got to be careful. Major Richards has got a lot of good friends in Portsmouth. Also, he’s a Freemason. And the chairman of the Portsmouth Magistrates, Sir John Smedley, is not only a Mason but also a leading one, a provincial grand master, or something of the sort, so you see—”
“Yes,” said Luke sadly. “I see very well.”
“It doesn’t mean that we do nothing. It means that we go carefully. Step at a time. You’ve convinced me, but if I’m going to convince other people – people who matter – I shall need a little more. At the moment, we’ve got one broken message and one complete one. Give me a second complete one – which you ought to get on Wednesday night – and if it tallies with actual ship movements, I reckon we shall have enough to convince anyone who isn’t so shortsighted that he can’t see the end of his own nose.”
“Right,” said Luke.
“One other thing: I take it you realise that if you’re going to take any actual steps against Major Richards you’ll need to have the police on your side.”
“I do realise that, sir. MO5 has no powers of arrest. In London, we use the Special Branch. Here it will mean the Portsmouth Police.”
“Which means Superintendent Marcher.”
Luke guessed from the tone of the admiral’s voice that he had some doubts about the reaction of the superintendent.
“He’s not a bad chap,” said the admiral. “His wife’s a holy terror. A broadside from her and you’ll be swimming for the shore. It’s a pity the chief constable’s away, in Canada on some official jaunt. He’s a good chap. As it is, we’ll have to deal with Marcher, and he’ll be inclined to follow Sir John Smedley’s lead.”
Luke said, “Maybe a chit I got from Captain Kell would help.” He showed it to the admiral, who read it and said, “Might help. Might just put his back up.” Seeing the look on Luke’s face, he added, “Don’t think I’m just making difficulties. I’m trying to be realistic. If I followed my own inclinations, I’d report our suspicions to the police at once, and ask them to pull Richards in. You know what Nelson said to his captains: ‘Lose not an hour.’”
As the admiral said this, he was looking out the window. His office was so placed that he had a view across the dockyard, out to the port entrance dominated by the bulk of the cathedral and beyond it to where the ruffled waters of Spithead glinted under the warm July sun.
Luke wondered what else he was seeing.
A German fleet, storming in, directed
by Zeppelins, guarded by submarines. Über and unter. Was this to be Germany’s unheralded stroke that would win the war when it had hardly begun?
The admiral turned away abruptly from the window and said, “Let me see your Wednesday night results as soon as possible. Meanwhile, I suggest that you and your friend keep out of the public eye.”
When he passed on this advice to Joe at breakfast next morning, Joe said, “Lie low for two days? No objections here. Doing nothing is something I’m good at.”
This was the cue for the arrival of a flustered Mrs. Stokes. She said, “I didn’t want to let him in, but I couldn’t stop him.”
“Who?”
“It’s the police.”
“Mustn’t keep the law waiting,” said Luke.
It was a red-haired man, with the stripes of a sergeant on his arm, who advanced on Luke and Joe as they finished their breakfast coffee. They put down their cups and looked at him. He drew a deep breath and said, “I am Sergeant Beatty, of the Portsmouth Borough Police. Is one of you Joseph Narrabone?”
“Yes,” said Luke. “One of us is. Might we see your warrant card?”
The sergeant said, “A policeman, on duty, in uniform, does not carry a warrant card.”
“All right,” said Luke cheerfully. “We’ll take you on trust.”
“Then you are—”
“No. This is Joe Narrabone. And now that we know one another, perhaps you’ll tell us what it’s all about.”
“My instructions are to request Joseph Narrabone to accompany me to the police station. A complaint has been made concerning him that Inspector Tillotson considers serious enough to justify further inquiries being made.”
“A complaint about what?” said Luke.
The sergeant looked upset. He had his brief and was unwilling to go outside it. In the end, he said, “About a photograph.”
Luke and Joe looked at each other with dawning comprehension.
Luke said, “Would it be a Mr. Hobhouse who made the complaint? Mrs. Hobhouse, for a dollar.”
The sergeant, on firmer ground now, said, “I am not entitled to reveal—”
“All right,” said Luke. “We understand all that. But if the matter is what I think it is, we are both implicated and will be delighted to give the inspector any information he wishes. But we are not going to be marched off as though we were already under arrest. Is that clear?”
“I’m not sure—”
“If the inspector wishes to question us, he can have us. On our terms. You go ahead. We’ll come along in ten minutes, when we’ve finished our coffee.”
The sergeant seemed unhappy. Luke, who had once been a policeman himself, was certain that he had no authority to take them into custody. Finally, realising that refusal would get him nowhere, the sergeant took himself off.
“Wanted to march us there in chains, diddun he?” said Joe. “What a turn-up.”
“Just the sort of turn-up we didn’t want,” said Luke.
Inspector Tillotson looked like an intelligent dog – a crossbreed, perhaps, thought Joe, who had owned one once who had been too intelligent and had been shot by a keeper.
He looked up as the two of them were shown into his office and barked out, “The complaint I’m investigating only concerns one of you. I don’t need the other.”
Luke, who had determined to be as conciliatory as possible, said, “I understand, sir, that the complaint is about the taking of a photograph. Since the only photograph with which we have been concerned is one we jointly induced Mr. Hobhouse to take, it seemed to me that we should both be in a position to help you.”
The inspector, who was ostentatiously making notes on the pad in front of him, said, “Repeat that, please. You induced Mr. Hobhouse to take this photograph.” He seemed pleased by the admission.
“Quite correct,” said Luke.
When he had made a further careful note the inspector leaned back, paused to give weight to his words, and said, “Under the bylaws of this borough a person is only authorised to take photographs of members of the public and offer the print for sale to the person photographed if he is licensed to do so. On the present occasion, Mr. Hobhouse was not doing this. He was taking a surreptitious photograph on your instructions for the purpose of a lawsuit. In other words, you were procuring and abetting a breach of the bylaws. Have you anything to say?”
Said his piece nicely, thought Joe.
Luke said, “Yes, sir. First, the photograph was not taken for use in legal process.”
This was so unexpected that the inspector forgot to make a note. Instead, he said, “Then you were lying to Mr. Hobhouse?”
“Yes, sir.”
“That makes the offence more deliberate and less excusable.”
“Yes, sir.”
This repeated agreement seemed to baffle the inspector, who was driven to asking the question he had hoped to keep in reserve. He said, “Then perhaps you would explain why you needed the photograph and why you obtained it in such an irresponsible and unauthorised manner.”
“That’s not quite correct, sir. I did have authority to act in the matter.” He took out the envelope that contained the letter Kell had given him. “But under the conditions on which that authority was given me, I am only permitted to show it to a chief officer of police. In the case of Portsmouth that would be your chief constable, but I understand he’s abroad. It will therefore have to be shown – if I am forced to produce it – to Superintendent Marcher and to no one else.”
That’s thrown him, thought Joe. He was a student of human nature, and the expression on Tillotson’s face delighted him. It was a mixture of curiosity, hesitation, and disbelief.
Before Tillotson had time to say anything, Luke added, “I am, at least, entitled to tell you one thing, on the understanding that it goes no further. I am acting in this matter with the concurrence of the head of the port, Admiral Manfred.”
By this time most of the disbelief had evaporated, but the curiosity had redoubled. Tillotson was eyeing the envelope hungrily. He said, “If I undertook to say nothing about it—”
“The fact that you had seen it might put you in a very awkward position in the future.”
Knockout, thought Joe.
“Very well. The superintendent is free at the moment. I’ll ask him to see you.”
Luke wondered, afterward, exactly what he did say to Marcher, who received him with cold politeness. Luke watched him read the letter, which he himself had read so many times that he knew it by heart.
To whom it may concern:
The bearer of this letter, Mr. Pagan, is engaged on security work of national importance. He is authorised to show the letter only to chief officers of police in any place in which he may be operating. Such a chief officer is requested to afford him any assistance that may be in his power and to refer any questions he may have, under confidential cover, to Captain Vernon Kell, at the Home Office, Whitehall.
From the commissioner of the Metropolitan Police.
[Signed with a bold slash in black ink] Basil Thomson.
Marcher pushed the letter back to Luke as though glad to get rid of it and looked at him for a long moment. His thoughts could be spelled out from the expression on his face. Could he really be expected to cooperate with a boy half his age? A boy who, at first encounter, had looked guileless to the point of naïveté? Could he possibly be a member of one of those recently formed and secretive outfits he had managed so far, thank goodness, to steer clear of?
Despairing of reading the riddle, he confined himself to saying, “Are you allowed to explain to me what you’re up to? For instance, what’s this story Inspector Tillotson has been telling me about a photograph?”
“I’m afraid we had to break the local rules there, sir. We needed a good photograph of this man to send to America. It should have arrived there by now.”
Before Marcher could ask the question that was on his lips, Luke added, “I wonder if you recall one of the guests at that drinks party at the Ro
yal Duke.”
“A party,” said Marcher with the suspicion of a smile, “at which you were handing around drinks.”
“I was indeed, sir. Do you recollect one of the Americans his friends called ‘Sam’?”
“Certainly. It was Supreme Court Justice Samuel Rosenberg.”
“Well, he’s one of the people in America whom the photograph will be shown to. I have a feeling he will recognise it.”
Marcher could not be headed off. The question had to be asked.
He said, “And who, exactly, is the subject of this photograph?”
“He is the present tenant of Fairford Manor House on Gilkicker Point.”
“Then you are talking about Major Richards?”
“A man who passes under that name, yes, sir.”
“When Tillotson told me, I could hardly credit it. Surely no suspicion of—of, well, anything discreditable can possibly attach to him. What is he being suspected of?”
“There is a supposition, but no absolutely conclusive proof, that he may be signalling information to the two Zeppelins that have been overflying the port so regularly. I don’t want to say any more than this at the moment.”
“Quite so,” said Marcher. “But—”
“Conclusive proof of our suspicions may be available within the next few days. At the moment, we cannot call on you for assistance. When – and if – we do, you may have to move very quickly. Meanwhile, I’m sure I needn’t impress on you that what I have told you is to go no farther.”
“Quite so,” said Marcher unhappily.
On Tuesday night, Luke was in the crow’s nest. As he anticipated, he saw neither Zeppelins nor lights.
On Wednesday night, before climbing into observation, Joe had moved around to a point from which he could see the back of the house. Sure enough, a beacon light was shining from a top-story window. Zeppelins ahoy, he thought, and had hardly reached his perch before they were overhead.
He had pencil and paper ready, but hours of practice had made him so skilled in reading the code that he was able to note the changes on sight.
In preparation for the grand review that weekend, the port was emptying steadily. The capital ship had gone, along with both of the battle cruisers and two of the three destroyers. The only new arrival was an armoured cruiser. The submarine and the small craft were unchanged.
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