Sir James Calboyd has been appointed Director of Aero Engine Production. This appointment was announced by the Prime Minister in answer to a question in the House this afternoon.
Sir James Calboyd is the chairman and founder of the Calboyd Diesel Company and the Prime Minister emphasised that the appointment had been made in conformity with the Government’s policy of appointing industrial specialists to control industry wherever control has been found necessary.
Sir James is well known as a philanthropist. And it will be remembered that for many years he has been an advocate of the greater use of diesel engines for aircraft. He has a wide knowledge of the aircraft industry and of aero engine design. It is common knowledge that the Calboyd factories are undergoing rapid expansion and that the output of diesel engines for our bomber aircraft is being rapidly increased.
I looked across at David, who had pulled up a chair to the fire. ‘The old boy has a big pull somewhere,’ I said. ‘It looks as though friend Schmidt was right about that order.’
David nodded. He was smoking a cigarette. ‘But is he our man?’
‘No,’ I said. I had made up my mind on that point from the start. ‘Have you ever met him? Well, if you had, I think you would realise where he fits in. He’s the unwitting tool behind which the Nazi control can operate without fear of discovery. You have some knowledge of the history of the man – how he built up Calboyds by mating a small engineering business to a little marine yard on the Mersey. He was probably quite a clever engineer, but not brilliant. He succeeded enough to be able to afford to buy other people’s brains. Very likely he used German brains. Calboyds has been built up since the last war and German brains were cheaply had in those post-war years. Don’t forget, Germany is the home of the diesel engine. With success, Calboyd emerged as a philanthropist and was seen in the drawing-rooms of Mayfair. Mayfair is not a far cry from the skirts of Government, especially if you have money to spread about. He’s a successful but not a brilliant man. And he’s solid British – cultivates a military figure and can trace his family back to the Middle Ages. No, he’s not our man, David.’
‘Well, how are we going to find out who is?’
‘That is just what I was considering when you came in. We haven’t much time. That paragraph about Calboyds proves it – quite apart from the danger of their getting at the boat. And we’ve got to take the offensive.’ I took my pouch from the corner of the washhand-stand and began to refill my pipe. ‘My line of attack is the City. I ought to be able to find someone in that rabbit-warren who can tell me who is at the back of Calboyds. But it may take time. It may be a question of delving into the background of the big share-holders. There’s Ronald Dorman and the two others, besides Calboyd – John Burston and Alfred Cappock.’ I lit my pipe and looked across the flame at David, his big powerful body hunched over the fire. ‘Somehow,’ I said, ‘we’ve got to trace Schmidt. Alive or dead, I believe he’ll prove to be the key to the whole thing.’
‘I don’t follow that at all,’ David replied. ‘If he’s alive and at liberty, he would have come to see you that Monday.’
‘I’m not sure about that,’ I replied. It was a point that I had been turning over in my mind for some time. ‘I think he knew he’d got me interested. Perhaps that’s all he wanted to do. Remember, he was on his own, wanted for murder by the police and foreign agents for the knowledge he possessed. If I had been in his shoes, I should have looked around for an ally. As a suspected murderer there were not many people open to him. But there was a chance with a man who was accustomed to defending criminals and murderers in the courts. Anyway, that’s one way of looking at it, and if I remember rightly it was you who suggested it.’
‘That’s true,’ David replied. ‘But don’t forget he was expecting the worst. I think it might be safer to work on the assumption that he is either dead or a prisoner. And in either case, I don’t see that he’s of much use to us.’
‘Take it at the worst and he’s dead,’ I said. ‘If we knew where he had been killed and could trace what he had been up to during his stay in London, we should know something. I have an idea he has friends among the refugees in this country. Somewhere he will have left a clue.’
David rose to his feet and stretched himself. ‘Somewhere,’ he said. ‘You can’t go looking through London for a clue dropped by an elderly Jewish refugee. I’m for bed, and in the morning I’m going to Manchester to see Calboyds about that money they owe me.’
So in the morning we each went our ways, he to Euston and I to the City. I left Freya instructions to stay indoors, and I told Mrs Lawrence to go out and get her a book and some chocolates.
But by the end of the morning I was tired of pumping friends about Calboyds and was feeling a little light-headed because my curiosity had involved me in a good deal of drinking. About lunch-time I found myself wandering into the City Office of the Record. Henderson, the City Editor, I knew through Jim Fisher, Editor of the Record. He greeted me like a long-lost friend and hauled me off to lunch with him. He ordered an enormous meal for us both at Pimms and then demanded that I tell him about the Margesson murder case, which I had completed just before the outbreak of war. ‘The City is dead, old boy. I’m bored stiff.’ So I explained to him how I had got the woman off. And in exchange I got nothing out of him except the lunch. ‘Calboyds, old boy,’ he said, when I broached the subject. He was already a little drunk. ‘Been out with Slater and a few of the boys,’ he explained, ‘trying to get the low-down on this bullet-proof glass racket like a good little City Editor.’ He made a wide encircling gesture with his hands. ‘Calboyds. Now there you’ve got something. You go in, old boy – make a packet if only this war lasts.’ He leaned close to me and whispered confidentially in my ear. ‘There’s a big deal on there right now. I have it straight from the jolly old horse himself – you know, old Jimmy Calboyd, monocle and all. He’s landing himself a contract for 10,000 of those new Calboyd Dragon engines. He tells me there’s nothing to beat ’em – nothing at all. They’re the goods, old boy. Absolutely. Knock the bloody Boche as flat as – as—’ He looked round for something to illustrate flatness and then spread his hands in a vague but expressive gesture. ‘And do you know who gives him the order, Andie, my lad?’
‘I’ll buy it,’ I said.
He suddenly laughed. ‘Why, he does, you old fool – he does. Haven’t you read the papers? They’ve made him Director of Aero Engine Production. Neat – eh? You go and buy as many Calboyds as you can get hold of, old boy. They’re offered at around 42s. 6d. this morning. Take my word for it, they’re going to a fiver at least.’
‘Listen,’ I said. ‘What I want to know is, who controls the outfit?’
‘Why worry about that, old boy? You can’t lose on it. I’ve put my shirt on ’em already.’
‘Well,’ I said, ‘I’m not buying till I know who controls the group.’
‘What’s it matter? Calboyd owns a big interest and Ronald Dorman – you know, the issuing house – got stuck with a lot. God! He must be coining money on them now. Think of it, man! He took up damn’ near the whole lot of that Ordinary share issue in 1937 at par – quite apart from the Preferences, that would be a matter of two million shares.’
‘I know about Dorman,’ I said, ‘But do you know anything about a John Burston and an Alfred Cappock?’
‘Never heard of them, old boy. They sound like brewers. But look here, why don’t you go down and see Sedel? Nice boy, Sedel. Tell you everything.’
‘Who is Sedel?’ I asked.
‘Max Sedel? He knows all about Calboyds. Fact is he knows a lot about the aircraft industry. Great lad. Tremendous worker. Come to think of it, it’s incredible. The fellow came to this country just after the Reichstag fire business. He was an anti-Nazi. Escaped from Germany. Hadn’t a bean. Didn’t know the language. Came to us. Began up at the City Office under me. Then gravitated to the Fleet Street end as foreign editor. Now he’s free-lancing and making a big income. First-class contacts. Industry
is his subject – industry and foreign affairs. Tremendous output even in these times. Why I mention him is he wrote a couple of first-rate feature articles on Calboyds for one of the financial papers. Appeared only the other day. If you like to come back to the office with me, I’ll show you the cuttings. But the thing to do is to go down and see Max.’
The lunch seemed to sober him up a bit, for by the time we got back to his office he was beginning to think of a lead for the last edition. His secretary brought me the file on Calboyds and I waded through it. There were several articles on the company, mainly from the financial weeklies. But the two by Max Sedel stood out. They gave me a very clear insight into the financial structure and industrial position of the company. It was unmistakably a puff, but it was cleverly done and a wealth of information about the company was included. There was nothing, however, on the subject of control. I decided to go and see Max Sedel.
Following Henderson’s instructions, I went down Copthall Avenue and turned into a rather dingy building. His office was on the first floor – ‘Max Sedel’ was painted on the door and underneath, ‘Journalist and Publicist.’ The interior might easily have been mistaken for a stockbroker’s office. The walls were surrounded by filing cabinets. There were newspapers and papers everywhere. The room was occupied by two girls – one, I presumed, a plain typist and filing clerk, and the other, who came to find out what I wanted, his secretary.
I sent in my card and was shown into the inner office. Here was some attempt at order, and a cheerful fire burned in the grate. The central feature of the room was a heavy mahogany desk, and behind it was a plump little man with fair hair, little steel-grey eyes and an absurd sort of cavalry moustache. He rose to greet me. The hand he offered me was white and limp, and there was a gold signet ring on the little finger. My first impression of him was not favourable, but when he spoke I realised he had charm. His smile was pleasant and friendly, and there was an air of courtliness in the way he offered me a cigarette – it was almost old-fashioned. But as I lit it, I was conscious of his eyes. He was young, but he was astute. I knew I should have to tread warily.
‘I am afraid I am about to waste some of your valuable time,’ I said. ‘But I read your two articles on Calboyds. My impression was that you knew your subject. Now, a very old friend of mine has had a lot of money left her and she wants to invest it in the best interests of the nation, without of course losing sight of the object for which one does invest money. My inclination was towards Calboyds. But in this connection a point has arisen which I thought you, with your intimate knowledge of the company, might be able to clear up. I am always very careful about giving advice over investments. Frankly, I don’t fancy it much – the responsibility is too great. A thing I always go for in these matters is the management and the control. Are they sound is the question I always ask myself. Now I find that in the case of Calboyds there are four big shareholders – Calboyd himself, two gentlemen who, as far as I know, are completely unknown in the world of finance, and Ronald Dorman, who may be backed by anyone. Who really controls Calboyds?’ I don’t know why I put the question so bluntly. My intuition told me, regardless of the cautious approach I had originally decided upon, that this was the way to obtain results. As I put the question, I raised my eyes and looked at him.
His cigarette was burning unheeded in his hand and those little steel-grey eyes were fixed on me as though he would seek to know what was going on inside my head. In an instant the tenseness of his body relaxed. But it was an artificial relaxation. He shrugged his shoulders and smiled pleasantly. ‘I’m afraid you have caught me out, Mr Kilmartin,’ he said. ‘I cannot tell you who controls the company. My concern at the time I was going into its affairs was simply to write it up from the point of view of both the general public and the investor. The question of control does not come within the scope of articles of that sort. Indeed, it would have been impertinent of me to make inquiries.’
Was it my imagination, or did I stand thus rebuked? But Sedel rose, smiling and holding out his hand to me, apologising for not having been more helpful.
As I walked down Copthall Avenue to Throgmorton Street, I could not rid myself of the memory of that moment of tension when I had put the question so bluntly. I hesitated in Throgmorton Street and, looking up at the doorway outside which I had stopped, realised that it led to the City Office of the Record. On a sudden impulse, I hurried up the stairs and into the office, where I inquired for Mr Henderson. ‘Sorry to bother you again,’ I said, as I was shown into his office, ‘but I was rather interested in Sedel.’
‘Yes, he’s an interesting person,’ Henderson replied. His voice was brisk and he seemed to be his old dapper self again. The effect of the drink had apparently been dispersed by work.
‘Could you tell me a little more about him?’ I asked.
‘I don’t know that there’s really much to tell.’ He tapped his teeth with a silver pencil, at the same time waving me to a big leather-padded arm-chair. ‘He came to us in ’33 as I told you. He had an introduction from Marburgs to our old man, you know, J. K. The fellow was pushed up here to make himself useful on the foreign side. He learnt quickly. He made good contacts. Believe it or not, within six months he could talk almost faultless English and was writing really good City stuff for us. His vocabulary was not large, but then that soon comes. I think it was in ’35 he became foreign editor. He worked that job up to £1,250 a year and then in ’37 he chucked it and set up on his own in the City. It seems incredible, doesn’t it. He was in the country only four years before he had got so much highly-paid outside work that he could afford to give up a safe four-figure salary. Since then he’s written three or four books, mostly on Germany. It’s funny. He’s terribly fond of Germany. But he hates the régime, curses the people for their folly in submitting to it. As I say, he hates the régime and thinks that it will ruin the country. Yet he thinks Germany will be the centre of the world within the next decade. Anyway, that’s what I know of Max Sedel. He’s a brilliant man and as a foreigner – he’s naturalised of course – but as a foreigner born he’s very much at home in the cosmopolitan world of the City. That’s where he has the advantage of us English journalists. Here I am, the City Editor of a big evening paper. I know all the heads of British industry, I know the bankers and the stockbrokers, but I don’t know the City. It takes a man with a gift for tongues and a queer twist in him somewhere to be able to say he knows the City. But if you know the City, you know the secret of international politics. Everything that happens in Europe is hatched in this Square Mile. But I’ve drifted away from the point. I merely say that Sedel sees a side of the City that neither I nor any other British journalist ever sees – the side of the underground movement of Big Business through international affairs.’
‘But I suppose he has English contacts as well?’ I asked.
‘You mean firms like Calboyds? Oh, rather. I tell you he’s a first-rate journalist and a very clever business man. He’s got a lovely place just outside Eastbourne. He’s realised something that so few journalists ever realise, and that is that journalism can be the gateway to money. I think you’ll find that he’ll have bought Calboyds quite heavily. You see, if you know the right people at the right time, you can’t help making money.’
I thanked him for what he had told me and took my leave. As I passed through the main office I heard a man who was running the tape through his hand exclaim, ‘Calboyds up another bob.’ Outside I turned left and walked to the taxi rank in Lothbury. And as I drove down Queen Victoria Street and along the Embankment to Whitehall, I began to consider where to cast about next. The time factor was the trouble. Given time, I might get somewhere. But already I had spent the better part of a day hunting round the City and had achieved nothing. Max Sedel had provided the only real interest of the day. I couldn’t help feeling what a useful man he would be to Germany. But though he intrigued me, he had not been able to help me. By the time I arrived at the Admiralty, I had decided that the morning had bee
n wasted and that the only thing to do was to try and get some sort of line on Dorman or the other two big holders. Somewhere there must be a clue to the link-up between Calboyds and Germany.
After a wait of nearly half an hour I was able to have a few words with Forbes-Pallister. I explained to him half the truth – that a friend of mine was working on a new type of diesel engine and that it was fitted to the boat. He promised to see that the order was rescinded. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said, as he saw me to the door of his office. ‘I’ll fix it for you and I’ll give you a ring when it has gone through. What’s your number?’
‘Terminus 6795,’ I told him. ‘If I’m not in, have your people leave a message, would you.’
As I walked up Whitehall, considering what line to follow up next, I remembered a fat smiling little man of the name of Evelyn Ward. He was a half-commission man, who was not above a little business blackmail and whom I got out of a tight corner once. I went to the nearest call-box and looked up his address. Then I crossed the Strand to Duncannon Street and took a bus, for I wanted to think out the position before I reached Ward’s office.
Ward specialised in gossip. In good years he made a bit on half-commission. But gossip was his speciality. And he made money out of it. It was not blackmail in the ordinary sense. In the first place, it was never personal gossip that interested him. In the second place, he never demanded money. His knowledge of the shady side of the City was encyclopaedic. It had to be. His consumption of liquor must have been colossal, but then so was his girth. His danger lay in the fact that he was popular. He was generally known as The Slug, or Slugsy to those who knew him well. He was a fat genial fellow, with a great moon of a face in which two little eyes twinkled, half-buried in flesh. His chins were a really noble sight, and his head, being to his disgust practically bald, was almost invariably covered by a broad black hat.
His usual line was options. Lounging round the bars, he would pick up a piece of gossip, overhear a scrap of conversation or buy the confidence of a junior clerk with a few drinks. He would then learn all there was to learn about the deal, and in due course he would approach the interested party, suggest that the information he had might be of use to the other side and evince a desire for an option on some of the shares of the company involved. He had explained to me rather ruefully at the time when I was defending him that it never failed to work. On that one occasion, he had failed to check up on his information as thoroughly as he might have done and his proposition had fallen on honest and outraged ears. Nevertheless, he had known enough for me to convince the prosecution that it would be better to settle the matter out of court.
The Trojan Horse Page 9