He was very helpful to the police, I understand. But I didn’t get much out of him. I told him I thought it was extraordinary that a man should drive over the cliff like that on a road he must have known like the palm of his hand. But all he said was that a cub reporter trying to make a suicide out of it for the sake of copy wouldn’t help a poor fellow much.’
‘Was he married?’ I asked.
‘Who – Sedel? Oh, you mean Burston. No – but he had plenty of friends in the district. A bit of a rough diamond, I gathered.’
‘Any money troubles?’
‘No, not as far as I can gather. He made a pile out in Mexico, I’m told. He worked through a lot of it. But the inspector did mention that he had a pretty solid bank balance.’
‘Did you know that he held a big block of shares in one of our leading industrial companies?’
‘No, that’s the first I’ve heard of it.’
I nodded and picked up my hat. ‘If you’re interested,’ I said, ‘get the list of shareholders of the Calboyd Diesel Company. And then find out who has his holding now.’ I left him looking rather puzzled and we drove up South Street to the police station.
‘Where does this Max Sedel come in?’ Freya asked.
‘I don’t know yet,’ I replied, as I pulled the car up to the kerb. ‘But I think he comes in somewhere.’
We had to wait some time for the inspector who had handled the case. When he came out to see us, I explained to him that I was interested in the case and wanted to ask him a few questions. He had intelligent brown eyes and he looked at me rather closely, I thought, as he told me to go ahead.
‘First of all,’ I said, ‘are you taking the view that it was an accident?’
At that he smiled and said, ‘That’s rather a leading question, Mr Kilmartin.’ He seemed to hesitate. ‘Are you acting for anyone in this matter?’ he asked.
‘No,’ I said, ‘I can claim no sort of privilege. But I happen to be interested in another matter with which Burston was connected.’
‘I see.’ Again he hesitated, and glanced at Freya. I explained that she was also interested in the matter. Then he said, ‘Well, quite frankly, Mr Kilmartin, I don’t know. It looks like an accident. But it may be suicide – you never know. But, mind you, there’s nothing to suggest that it was, and I’m inclined to let well alone.’
‘There’s no question of foul play?’ I asked.
‘Any reason why there should be?’ he asked, and again I was conscious of his eyes watching me closely.
‘I just wondered,’ I said. ‘It seems strange that a man who had lived four years in the district should turn left instead of right at the one dangerous spot on the whole of the road.’
‘Yes,’ he said, fingering his jaw. ‘Yes, I did consider the idea of foul play. But there was nothing to suggest it. The marks of the car ran straight across the turf. He had no enemies, as far as we can tell, and no fortune that would benefit any relations.’
‘Had he any relations?’ I asked.
‘Well, we’ve unearthed an old aunt up at Sheffield. He was a Yorkshire man, you know. There’s no will, so she’ll take what the State doesn’t.’
‘Did he leave much?’
‘Nothing vast.’
‘What about his holding in the Calboyd Diesel Company? He owned the better part of a million shares.’
‘Yes, but he’d been speculating pretty heavily. They were all mortgaged.’
‘What bank?’ I asked.
‘It wasn’t a bank. It was the Southern Thrift Society.’
That was what I had wanted to know. ‘What about this fellow Sedel?’ I asked.
‘Seems all right. Burston certainly was drunk. The proprietor of the Wish Tower Splendide himself was at the party and vouches for that. He’s one of our councillors. The fellow had been drinking heavily since the outbreak of war. Seems it had got on his nerves.’
‘Did he go to London much?’
‘Occasionally.’
‘For the day?’
‘No, for a night or two usually.’
‘Where did he stay?’
‘His club.’
‘The name?’
‘The Junior First National.’
I could see the inspector was getting tired of my questions since they did not appear to help him. I thanked him. But as I took my leave, I suddenly felt a wicked urge and, turning to him, I said, ‘You know, Inspector, I think you’ll find it’s murder.’
He came after me at that. ‘Perhaps you’ll explain, sir,’ he said.
But I shook my head and laughed. ‘There’s nothing to explain,’ I said. ‘I know no more than you. But that’s my view.’ And I climbed into the car and left him looking very puzzled on the steps of the police station.
After that we drove down to the front and up the twisting road to the downs. It was the first time Freya had seen Beachy Head and she fell immediately in love with the rolling downland country, which looked soft and pleasant in the warm sunshine. From Beachy Head itself the road to Birling Gap snakes down behind the cliffs. Ahead of it stands the old Belle Toute lighthouse and, in that fresh light, it looked very white on its steep knoll. The lighthouse is used as a residence now and a tarmac drive runs down the steep grass slope to join the road at the foot. It is here that the road comes closest to the cliff with only twenty yards or so of flat turf between it and a three-hundred-foot drop. The road swings away sharp to the right to round the Belle Toute hill and drop to Birling Gap, and, as I drew into the car-park, I couldn’t for the life of me understand how a man, drunk or sober, could have turned left, instead of right, even in a mist.
We crossed the turf to the cliff edge. The marks of the car’s wheels were still faintly visible and the chassis had torn into the edge of the cliff, where it had plunged downwards. Freya held my arm and we walked to the edge. The cliffs of the Seven Sisters away to our left were very white against the blue sky, and gulls circled incessantly with their mournful cries. Down below us the waves washed against the white cliffs, creamy with chalk. We lay down and peered over the edge. Above the creaming waves we caught sight of a car’s wheels. I felt Freya’s body shudder and I helped her back.
We said nothing as we drove back to Eastbourne. I was busy working out the next move. Freya, I fancy, was thinking of her father. We had a hasty lunch at a hotel on the front and then drove back to town. I returned the car to its garage and, having put Freya on to a trolley-bus in the Gray’s Inn Road, I took a bus to Piccadilly Circus and strolled down Lower Regent Street to Pall Mall. I turned in at the junior First National, and after a little persuasion I was allowed to go through the list of members. Burston’s name was there, and a little farther down I saw the name of Cappock. Ronald Dorman’s name was also on the list. For a small club I noticed quite a number of famous names, mainly industrial. There was Lord Emsfield and Viscount Chalney, Baron Marburg, Sir Adrian Felphem, a sprinkling of cabinet ministers and one or two of the newspaper magnates. And among this fine array I noticed the name Sedel – Max Sedel – and looking back I found Sir James Calboyd and those of the other Calboyd directors.
I left the club with the feeling that I was at last getting somewhere. It was not just coincidence that all these people belonged to the same club. Of course, it was possible that they had met as a result of being members. But I was inclined to think that they had met first and that their membership of the same club was designed to allow them to meet without exciting comment. And what about Sedel? Where did he come in?
I found a call-box at the corner of Lower Regent Street and rang up Henderson. ‘Do you know anything about the Southern Thrift Building Society?’ I asked. ‘Who controls it?’
He said, ‘Hold on a minute and I’ll have a look at Moody’s card.’ After a moment he returned. ‘Well, I can’t say whether anyone in particular controls it, but Ronald Dorman is the chairman.’ And then he ran through the list of directors, none of whom I knew.
I thanked him and rang off. Ronald Dorman was the chairman
and the building society held the whole of Burston’s shares in Calboyds. Things seemed to be falling into place. Whilst I was in the booth, I decided to ring up Crisham. As I dialled the Yard number, my next move was slowly taking shape at the back of my mind. My idea was to cause as much trouble for the other side as I could. I was put straight through to Crisham and was just telling him what I thought about the Burston business, when he cut me short. ‘I’ve been wanting to speak to you,’ he said, His voice was sharp, almost imperative, and I realised that he was worried. ‘First, about that boat of Llewellin’s. It arrived at Calboyds’ yard just before midday yesterday and we took possession. And a hell of a nuisance it was, because Calboyds were furious and got on to the Admiralty, and before I knew where I was the Chief Commissioner was on to me to know why I had taken such a step. Well, I had my way in the end, though I was told to release it as soon as possible. But – and this is the point – a fire broke out at the Calboyd yard about three this morning. I had two men on guard on the boat, but they considered it their duty to attend the fire. When they came back the boat was gone.’
‘Gone?’ I exclaimed. ‘My God, Crisham!’ I realised the futility of blaming him. ‘Go on,’ I said. ‘I suppose there’s no trace of it?’
‘None whatever,’ he replied. ‘The other thing I want to mention is that your club has been burgled. Amongst other things taken from the safe in the secretary’s room is that statement of yours. Look, Andrew,’ he said, and there was a tone of pleading in his voice, ‘don’t you think you’d better come out into the open. What is all this?’
‘There’s still the statement at my bank,’ I said.
‘I know. But I think it’s time you talked. Look, I shall be in this afternoon. If you care to pop round and tell me what you know, I think it’ll be good for us both.’
I hesitated. The boat was gone. Something had to be done. ‘All right,’ I said. ‘I’ll be there in half an hour.’ And I rang off. My mind was made up. I had got to frighten someone into an admission. I looked up Sedel’s number in the directory. I felt tensed up with excitement. But Sedel was out. Well, then, it would have to be Cappock. I jumped into a taxi. ‘Wendover Hotel,’ I said.
In a few minutes I was running up the steps of the hotel. ‘Is Mr Alfred Cappock in?’ I asked. He was and he would see me. I was taken up to a small but pleasantly furnished suite on the third floor overlooking the Green Park. A tall thin man with a slight stoop unfolded himself from an easy-chair drawn up close to the electric fire. He had an almost boyish-looking face, yet the skin was parchment-like and sallow. His eyes were pale and lack-lustre. On a table by his side was a decanter, a soda siphon and two glasses, both of which had been used. He waved me to the chair opposite him and as I sat down I had that peculiar sensation of having been expected that I experienced in Ronald Dorman’s office.
I had no time to waste and came straight to the point. ‘You are one of four big shareholders in Calboyds,’ I said.
He inclined his head in assent.
‘But of those four,’ I went on, ‘Sir James Calboyd is the only one who really owns his holding.’ I was watching him closely. My tone had been matter-of-fact, as though I were merely repeating what was common knowledge. I saw his dull eyes narrow. ‘Ronald Dorman got his big holding by purposely pitching the price of an issue too high,’ I told him. ‘But you and Burston were given yours. Did you know Burston?’ I asked.
‘Slightly,’ he said. His voice was soft, and he made no attempt to deny what I had said.
‘Of course,’ I went on, ‘you are members of the same club. You have read of Burston’s death, I suppose?’
He nodded. ‘He had taken to drinking rather too much.’
‘You’ve been primed with that.’ I spoke sharply and leaned slightly forward. It was a technique I had often used when cross-examining doubtful witnesses, and I had the satisfaction of seeing him flinch. ‘He was on the point of blabbing. He drank because he was scared.’ I paused, and then said quietly. ‘He was murdered.’
‘Oh, but—’
I cut him short. ‘He was murdered,’ I repeated. ‘Yes, murdered – just as you’ll be murdered when the time comes.’
His pale eyes were a little wider now. But I had no chance to press home my advantage. Out of the tail of my eye I caught a slight movement. And as I turned a soft suave voice said, ‘I am sorry to break in upon this melodramatic scene, Mr Kilmartin.’
The bedroom door was open and framed in it was the podgy little figure of Max Sedel. A revolver dangled carelessly from his right hand – an ugly little weapon fitted with a silencer – and in the light from the window I saw the gold of his signet ring glitter. ‘I have been expecting you,’ he said quite calmly. I met his eyes, and a shiver ran down my spine. They were narrow, steely slits in the puffy flesh of his face, and suddenly I knew what he reminded me of – a stoat. Sitting in his office, he had seemed to me essentially a sedentary man. I had thought him dangerous, but passively so. I had thought of him as a man who might prove useful to Germany, a man who could obtain valuable information. Now I saw him for what he really was. It showed in his eyes, in the poise of his small plump, almost feminine figure and in the careless way he held the gun. He was a gangster. Not just a common gangster, but that most dangerous of all gangsters, a fanatic with boundless ambition – a little Napoleon.
He picked up the phone and asked for a number. Cappock had risen to his feet. His sallow features seemed a shade paler, and the boyishness had gone from them so that they now looked sharpened and hard. I remained in my chair, my eyes fixed on Sedel. He was swinging the revolver rhythmically to and fro by the trigger-guard, and with the other hand he moved the mouthpiece of the receiver against his fair moustache with a soft caressing movement. Little silky golden hairs marked the line of the razor across his soft white cheeks. At last he got his connection. ‘We are waiting,’ was all he said, and replaced the receiver. Then he turned to me. ‘For a criminal barrister,’ he said, ‘you’re an incredible fool. Did you imagine that you could go around, openly asking awkward questions, with complete impunity? Mein Gott! It is always the same with you stupid English. You never plan ahead. You think you’ll always muddle through somehow. Well, this is the end of your muddling. You’re through. The whole lot of you are through. In a few months we shall be running everything for you.’
‘And massacring the people, as you have massacred them in Poland,’ I said, my tone bitter with contempt.
He laughed. It was a high-pitched sound, something like a giggle. ‘Maybe,’ he said. ‘We don’t do things by halves. That’s where you people always fall down. You don’t plan and you’re never thorough. You’re too squeamish. If you intend to conquer a race, you must conquer them. And that means that you must ruthlessly subdue them. If you only half do the job, they’ll rise against you as soon as your back is turned. But England will not rise again once we have conquered her – never.’
‘And all this just because you’ve stolen a diesel engine from a defenceless old Jew?’ I asked.
‘Defenceless old Jew!’ he exclaimed, and for a moment I thought he would spit on the carpet. ‘A damned traitorous swine. That engine belongs to the Reich, and back to the Reich it will go.’
‘And how do you propose to get it there?’ I asked scornfully.
He looked at me. ‘You want to know too much, my friend.’
At that I forced a laugh. ‘You talk of organisation,’ I said with fine scorn. ‘You have me at your mercy, yet you’re so afraid that I shall escape that you daren’t give me even the most obvious information. There’s only one way you can get it out of the country, and that is in a neutral ship bound for a neutral port. And that’s where you lose. You’ve no conception of the meaning of contraband control, though you would have if you lived in Germany and faced the pinch with the rest of your country. Germany never had a navy that had the freedom of the seas, so you don’t understand the meaning of naval efficiency. You’ve as much chance of getting that engine through to a
neutral country as of flying it there.’
I saw the flush spread from his neck to his white cheeks, and I knew I had succeeded. He strode up to me and struck me across the face. I did not move, but sat watching his eyes. ‘Your navy!’ he sneered. ‘Where does your precious navy look – why, in the hold of a ship. You smug, foolish little lawyer! In three days that engine leaves the country. A day later it will be in Germany. Everything is ready – the materials, the skilled workers, everything. In six months from now our planes will be bombing your towns with impunity.’
He was interrupted by a knock at the door. He motioned Cappock to answer it. The man crossed the room. His stoop was very noticeable. He opened the door slightly and peered out. Then he pulled it wide open and two men came in, dressed in a dark-brown livery and carrying a large tin box between them. It was black and had the name A. Cappock painted in white on the lid. It was a deed-box of the type you see trundled in and out of banks in the City. But it was a good deal larger than the ones I was accustomed to seeing. ‘Cappock’s deed-box and your coffin,’ Max Sedel told me.
Until that moment, I think the whole scene had appeared somewhat unreal to me. I had seen much of the seamy side of London and other big cities. I knew that strange things happened behind the quiet façade of these places. But those who live in London never fear it. The strange happenings they read of never touch them, never break the daily routine of their lives. My eyes turned to the window. I could see the bare black branches of the trees in the park. Soon they would be green, with the bright fresh green of spring. My heart overflowed with the longing to see that spring green again. The cold wretched winter was a thing of the past. Ahead lay the spring, with promise of new things. And in that moment it was of Freya I thought. My eyes travelled from Sedel’s revolver to the tin box and back again to the revolver. But my brain scarcely registered what my eyes saw, for my mind was occupied with a picture of that oval face, with the slender arch of the eyebrows and wide dark eyes above the finely chiselled nose. I saw down the whole corridor of my life, and where I had before been satisfied with it, with my success as a criminal barrister, with my wide circle of friends, with the pleasant times I had had, I now found it empty and lifeless. And the park would soon be green again! Yet I was to end my life inconspicuously, murdered because I knew too much. I felt a sudden rage. Was I to let life be taken from me just as I had found something that made it so precious?
The Trojan Horse Page 11