Into Battle

by Michael Gilbert

  “Hold it,” said Luke. “We seem to have lost some numbers.”

  By this time, they had reached the gap, where a pair of iron gates guarded a private driveway. And the next house beyond the gap was 107! After staring at it blankly for a few seconds, the solution occurred to them. Peering through the latticework of the gates, they could see that there were two houses on either side of the drive. It was one of those compact upper-class developments that were becoming popular.

  The gates, which seemed to have been more for show than protection, were unlocked. They went through, and sauntered past the houses on the left, which were numbered 101 and 103, the ones opposite being 102 and 104. The end of the drive curved sufficiently to conceal what lay beyond it. But Luke was now in no doubt. Joe had been right all along. He wondered what sort of house 105 would turn out to be. A modest two-up and two-down, or one of those mansions that Joe despised?

  “Slower, slower,” he said.

  “Like I was saying,” said Joe, “the girl was something he’d picked up in Jamaica and brought back with a load of pineapples. But she was a girl of spirit. She wanted everything done just the way they done it in Jamaica. Trouble was, the parson wasn’t used to the marriage customs of ’eathen wimmin—”

  Then he stopped. They could both see it: two impressive gateposts fronting a considerable building. On the nearer one, the number 105. On the farther one, the words “East Plumstead Crematorium.”

  “Then you think you’ve located Tyr?”

  Luke could not tell, from Kell’s expression, whether he believed him, or disbelieved him, or was adopting his normal stance of impartiality.

  He said, “I did think so, sir. On our way home, Dr. Spilsbury said a lot more to me than he did to Inspector Horniman. He said more than once how very surprised he was that the crematorium had allowed itself to be hustled out of its normal programme. But if the man in charge was secretly on the same side as the Irish ruffians, then of course he’d have been willing to do whatever they wanted.”

  Kell said, slowly, “On balance, I’m inclined to think that you’re right. Not entirely for the reasons you’ve given. Other factors have emerged. When I got your note, I asked our friends in the Home Office to run a quick rule over the man in charge of the crematorium – one Andrew Robb. Quite an interesting character. Real name, Anders Raab, from Munich. Arrived here in 1905. Does that stir your memory? Applied for nationalisation in 1910—”

  “Aren’t those the dates—?”

  “The same as Goodison. Exactly. They came here in the same year and were both naturalised five years later – that is, as soon as the law allowed. I’ve been sent a copy of the naturalisation committee proceedings. Immediate acceptance. Both with spotless records. Both holding down good jobs, and both had learned to talk fluent English. Raab had some reputation as a sculptor. Miniature objets d’art. He’d given an exhibition in Munich in 1903. Are you thinking what I am?”

  “It looks like a little nest of undercover agents, carefully planted. Did ‘Loki’ arrive at the same time?”

  “His first journalistic outpourings started at about that date, but it’s not him I’m interested in. He was too openly hostile to be dangerous. No. It’s the third man, der Vetter – the master gardener who has bedded these plants down so carefully. He’s the one we want. And if Robb really is the contact man, the only one who knows where their leader and organiser is hidden, then Robb must be most carefully watched. We are negotiating for an attic apartment in No. 109 – that’s the second house along from the gateway at the top of the Crescent. It has a good view of the crematorium house, side door, and back door. That’s your observation post to be manned in all daylight hours. You, Joe, and Ben can share it out among you. Right?”

  As Luke rose to go, Kell added, “And will you please offer Joe my sincere congratulations.”

  Luke said, “It’s odd that his instinct has always been better than my reasoning.”

  “That may be true,” said Kell. “But don’t stop thinking. Thought rules the world. Or so I’ve been told.”

  Kell smiled almost genially. He could feel that things were moving in his direction.

  “Have you any idea what’s become of that journalist?” asked Hall. He and Kell had fallen into the habit of visiting each other on alternate Tuesdays.

  “Which of the scaly tribe are you talking about?” Kell had suffered a good deal from the press in his time.

  “Real name Daryl Forbes. Calls himself Loki.”

  “Ah, the god of mischief. Yes. His name cropped up yesterday when I was talking to Luke. I said that he was the least important of the gods in this particular pantheon.”

  “Because he’s the most open?”

  “So outspokenly hostile to our state and institutions that I did wonder whether he was deliberately laying himself open to imprisonment – or at least to internment.”

  “To save his skin?”

  “Exactly.”

  “And now, apparently, he’s disappeared.”

  “He was always a bird of passage. Across to Ireland and back again. And moving about in both countries, though I’m tolerably certain that he’s here now. Our new regulations about leaving the country are stringent.”

  “Here, but in hiding.”

  “If not in hiding, at least not publicly announcing his whereabouts. The only person likely to be in touch with him is that editor – what’s his name?”

  “Portlach,” said Hall, who never forgot the names of his friends, or his enemies.

  “We might try to shake him down. If you think the fact that Forbes is lying low is significant.”

  “Just a sailor’s myth,” said Hall. “When the seagulls hide themselves away inland, it’s a sign that heavy weather is coming up from the sea.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  It was three o’clock on a grey morning when the U-boat, going north, crossed the wide opening of Tralee Bay and nosed its way into the estuary of the Shannon River. The equinoctial gales of late March had spared the western coast of Ireland and expended most of their force on the North Sea. There was a light trough on the surface, which made the U-boat roll a little as it came closer to land, but that was all.

  “Nach Steuerbord Kerry, Ed,” said the U-boat skipper.

  The man who was standing beside him on the foredeck was wearing a British officer’s overcoat and – oddly enough, if there had been light enough for close inspection – what seemed to be a pair of fisherman’s waders. He turned his head slightly and said, “Ja. Und nach Backbord Loophead.” Then in perfect upper-class English, “I must congratulate you on such an excellent and accurate landfall.”

  The captain evidently understood enough of this to know that it was a compliment. He smiled briefly and turned to the business at hand.

  The hatch in the afterdeck was open, and an inflatable rubber dinghy was being coaxed out of it, lowered over the side and held steady, while a motorcycle was slid down into it and held in position by straps on the gunwale. This did not leave much room for the passenger who squeezed in behind it, further encumbered by a large knapsack he laid on top of the machine.

  When he had settled himself into position he said, “As long as the tide holds, I shall not have to use my outboard motor. If I have to use it eventually, you will have had plenty of time to back out and submerge.”

  The captain nodded. They shook hands. No more words were spoken.

  For the first few minutes the passenger was using his night glasses to pick up the strip of sand he had seen once before, from above, when out shooting. When he had located it, he replaced the glasses in their case and bent to the oars. He needed them only to steer the dinghy, which was being carried forward steadily on the making tide.

  There was an awkward moment when they grounded and the motorcycle, pulling against its straps, threatened to capsize the dinghy. But the passenger had thought out the necessary moves, and five minutes later the machine was unstrapped and beached. Then he turned his attention to the dinghy.


  First, he detached the outboard motor. It was no great weight, and swinging it in a half circle, he hurled it out into deep water. Next, he selected half a dozen of the largest rocks he could handle and packed them carefully into the bottom of the dinghy. Then he opened the valve in its stern and allowed it to deflate slowly, controlling the speed by opening and shutting the valve. As it went down, he folded the collapsed sides inward, over the stones, finally fastening them down with the gunwale straps.

  The dinghy was now no more than a large, weighted, rubber bag. Stepping out into the sea, protected by his fisherman’s waders, he dragged it with him as far as he could go, gave it a gentle push, and watched the bubbles as it sank. The ebb tide would roll it out into deeper water.

  The path that led up from the beach was steep but practicable. Alternately pulling and pushing the motorcycle, he inched his way up it, glad to reach the turf at the top. Here he paused for breath before going down to get the knapsack, which he had left on the beach.

  By now, the light was coming back into the sky and there was no time to lose. He changed the soaked fisherman’s trousers for a more orthodox pair, which he extracted from the knapsack along with a small flask of brandy.

  “Time for a nip,” he said, “to celebrate a safe landing. Viel gluck.”

  He fastened the knapsack onto the back of the machine, which carried the blue and red identification of the Royal Engineers, and pushed it forward onto the road, which paralleled the cliff top at this point. Then he kicked the motor into life and departed sedately, in the growing light, in the direction of Limerick.

  Joe and Ben were occupying a chair each, set back from the window, in the attic of 109 Abbey Wood Road. Both were equipped with field glasses, through which, from time to time, they inspected the premises of the East Plumstead Crematorium.

  The chapel was a slant-roofed building with a row of uninspired stained-glass windows. It had, as Joe had seen on his previous visit, a large double door in the west side, out of sight from where they sat, opening onto the driveway, which led, through ornamental pillars, out onto the road.

  The crematorium building was hidden by the chapel. All they could see of the crematorium was the door at the east end, which gave access to the furnace room and the top of a stubby chimney showing over the roof of the chapel.

  “Clear enough, innit?” said Joe. “There’s some sort of opening in the wall of the chapel so they can shove the corpse straight through into the furnace.”

  “Inhuman,” said Ben. “What’s wrong with being buried in a nice churchyard?”

  “Cremation’s neater and cleaner,” said Joe.

  Before this well-worn argument could develop, their attention was switched from the crematorium to the house at the back.

  This was clearly the residence of the director, Mr. Robb. They had in view both the door at the side of his house, which gave access to the living rooms, and the back door, which opened onto the kitchen quarters. A green van had now drawn up.

  “Baker,” said Ben. He looked at his watch and made a note of the time. A fat woman waddled out of the kitchen, accepted three loaves from the baker’s boy, exchanged insults with him, went back inside, and slammed the door. Ben embarked on a more interesting topic. He said, “I was wondering how you were getting on with Rosemary.”

  “Rosemary?”

  “The girl who works for Goodison.”

  “Oh, you mean Rosie. She’s a very nice girl. Simple, but nice.”

  “How did you—I mean—how did you get going?”

  Joe deduced, from the way in which the question was put, that Ben’s experience of girls was limited. He thought it was time he had some elementary instruction. He said, “If you want to get started with a girl, there’s one part of her body you have to concentrate on. And I don’t mean what you’re thinking. I mean her stomach. All girls are hungry. Most of the time. So take ’em out and stuff ’em with toast and cakes. That’s the first step. Next, see if you can locate some other girl on the premises, or thereabouts, and take her out.”

  “I follow that,” said Ben. From his close attention, he might have been listening to a professor expounding on a chemical experiment. “That’s to make her jealous, I take it.”

  “Right. The old green eyes. And what’s more, it gives you two strings to your bow. You may find number two more attractive, in which case you can drop number one. If she’s not so hot, you ask number one out again. By this time, she’ll be panting to come. But”—here Joe shook a finger at Ben—“don’t make a common mistake: Don’t pretend you haven’t been out with number two. Talk about her, as much as you like. That’s the way to sharpen up number one.”

  “Hold it. Oh, it’s just the mailman.”

  The mailman knocked at the side door, which was opened by the gardener-handyman, whom they presumed to be the husband of the kitchen lady. He took delivery of some letters and three parcels – heavy, by the way they were handled.

  Ben, after making a careful note, said, “I suppose you’ve done a lot of this sort of thing, you and Luke.”

  “Oh, we was a great pair. The pride of H Division. Luke attended to the roo-teen. I supplied the inspiration. The man we was working for – Fred Wensley – ’e was nuts on this sort of job. The secret of success, he used to say, is continuous observation. Once I sat in a damp hole for a week looking at a soap factory.”

  “That doesn’t sound very exciting.”

  “Nor it wasn’t, until it turned out the factory wasn’t only making soap. It was turning out dynamite as well. Another time it was a bit more comfortable. We was up in a tree. We was after a sod what called himself Major Richards. A real snake. The sort of man who wouldn’t come in the front door until he’d got the back door wedged open.”

  “Did you catch him?”

  “We had him all lined up. Then a pompous bloody nit what happened to have the ear of the local police, made us hold off. Consequence, he got out and back to Hunland, where he is now, no doubt, patting himself on the back, God rot him.”

  Ben moved back to the topic that interested him more.

  “Those girls,” he said. “Did you get anything useful from either of them? They were working for Goodison, and it seems from these two messages that what they call ‘the special product’ went first to him. Then he sent it on to Robb here, for some sort of treatment.”

  “Maybe in those three boxes we saw the mailman handing in.”

  “Could be, yes.”

  “And we shan’t find out by sitting on our arses half a mile away. What we’ve got to do is—oh, hold it. Here’s the dustman.”

  To: Field Marshal Lord Kitchener, His Majesty’s Secretary of State for War

  From: Sir John French, GHQ British Forces, Amiens

  Dated: May 18, 1915. Confidential

  Sir,

  As I reported in my 095 of May 12, the attack by the French Tenth Army in Artois, after initial success, was brought to a halt on May 10. I have now been requested to attack, in support of a further projected advance by the French, the location suggested being Aubers Ridges in the Lys Valley.

  While regarding the idea of two converging attacks as tactically sound, I have, in duty, to point out one fact.

  The artillery preparation for the French attack lasted for five days. My ammunition reserves are such that my CCRA, General Burch, has calculated that, at the most, all we can afford is a preliminary bombardment of forty minutes.

  I am driven to the reluctant conclusion that unless a further supply of shells and, in particular, of heavy-calibre shells, reaches me shortly and can be guaranteed to continue on a regular basis, l shall be forced, in reliance on the escape clause granted to me when I assumed command, to inform the French quartier general that any sustained action would endanger the forces I have the honour to command and that I would therefore be unable to cooperate with them.

  I am sure you will appreciate the serious results were I forced to take such a step.

  While the above letter wa
s being written, Daryl Forbes, who called himself Loki, the god of mischief, was sitting on the veranda of a bungalow at Walton-on-Thames, enjoying the May sunshine. The swallows had arrived and were building under the boathouse eaves. On the river, which ran past the foot of the lawn, two swans were paddling easily against the current.

  An oasis of peace in a lifetime dedicated to strife and toil.

  The bungalow belonged to a Mrs. O’Malley, a lady well past middle age but constructed of that strong Irish bog oak that defies the passage of the years. She had come to England from her native County Galway at the turn of the century and had spent the past fifteen years expressing her detestation of the British ruling class and helping any Irishman who needed help.

  She had known Daryl for forty years, and on the recent occasion when he had come from Ireland to England, fully expecting to find a warrant for his arrest awaiting him at disembarkation, he had turned to her for asylum and comfort, both willingly given.

  He had not stepped outside the bungalow since he arrived, and he could be sure of his hostess’s discretion. He was not so totally sure of Mr. Portlach. It was only because the editor had insisted that he had given him his address. He was in his hands, for he knew that the Irish Citizen was the only paper that would print his articles, and that only because they were acting under direct orders from Dublin.

  He did not think that Portlach would go out of his way to betray him – why should he? – but he was a weak man, and under pressure from the authorities he might be persuaded to do so. However, a precaution had been taken to guard against even this contingency. After continued inattention to duty, Mr. Portlach’s original secretary had been sacked and replaced by a younger and more intelligent girl, Annette, who was the daughter of Patrick O’Hegarty, a leading light among the Killarney boys.

  “A Killarney girl,” thought Forbes with a smile. She could be relied on to warn him if danger impended.

  He was smiling at this comfortable thought when Mrs. O’Malley came out of the house with a tumbler of pink and frothy liquid and waited to see that he drank it. She said, “Finish it up. Every drop. Remember what the doctor said: You’re to be careful of yourself.”