My gaze turned to the bridge of the Thirlmere. On it stood two clergymen in their white surplices and several frock-coated gentlemen, among whom I recognised Sir James Calboyd, a young-looking elderly man, with a very shiny top hat over his silvery hair and a rather ostentatious monocle. Directly beneath the bridge the choir stood facing us, and a little to one side an elderly man sat bowed over a harmonium. Glancing round amongst the crowd, which was a queer mixture of morning-dress and sports clothes, I caught sight of Sedel’s short puffy figure. He was standing amongst a group of frock-coated individuals, but I saw that, though he was talking most of the time, his little eyes were darting here and there amongst the crowd. I moved as far away from him as I could. I fancied that if my eyes at any time met his, my disguise would be pierced at once. I had barely taken up my new position when the old man at the harmonium came to life. Then Baron Ferdinand Marburg, accompanied by the Finnish Minister, came out on to the bridge. As he reached the front of it, he removed his hat. His sleek, well-groomed hair gleamed in the sunlight. At once the buzz of conversation ceased. All eyes were fixed upon that massive, black-coated figure. Cameras clicked and the faint whirr of the news cameras could be heard. In that instant Marburg dominated the whole scene. That great head with its thick black eyebrows and square jaw was striking enough beneath the sleek black hair. But, as ever, it was the eyes that drew the gaze of everyone. For one moment those deep-set sockets were alive, as he took in the scene before him, and then the heavy eyelids had hooded them and that powerful face might have been cut in stone for all the life that showed in it.
Then the service started. It did not take long. A stirring hymn, a few prayers for Finland, and finally the dedication. And when all the deadly cargo of that ship had been dedicated to the service of God, Marburg addressed the assembly. I cannot remember what he said. In print it would not, I fancy, seem inspired. In fact, what he said was probably quite banal. It was the man himself who held that crowd spellbound. Not because his eloquence gripped them, not because he wrung tears of pity from them on Finland’s behalf, but because of the power he radiated. His great sombre voice boomed out across the bows of that ill-fated ship, even and monotonous, but with a terrible sense of the power of the speaker. I can remember only one sentence. ‘I am going to Finland myself on this ship,’ he said, ‘to see how desperate things are and what must be done.’ And the impression left was that the Russian forces would melt away at the speaker’s arrival.
And when he had finished, there was a deathly silence. It was broken by the usual British enthusiasm for cheers. And so they cheered Baron Ferdinand Marburg on his way to Germany, and I stood there silent, wondering what the hell I was going to do about it.
Two things I had discovered since I had come on board. The first was that the volunteers were, as I had suspected, Marburg’s own picked men. The second was that Marburg was sailing with the Thirlmere. That could only mean one of two things – either this was his planned exit, or it meant that his position was getting precarious. I hoped it was the latter, for then something might result from my visit to Fisher. Apart from using the statement I had given him as the basis for a story, he had promised to have copies made straight away. One was to be sent to the Chief Commissioner and another to the Air Minister himself. ‘If all this is true,’ Fisher had said, ‘there are bound to be some loose threads somewhere. There always are in any big move of this sort. No one knows anything about it, until someone turns up to give the show away, and then all the little pieces fall into place. And the loose threads, the pieces of the jig-saw, will either be in the hands of the police or in the hands of the Intelligence.’ That had seemed the best I could do. Fisher was Scot enough to be obstinate once he had got an idea into his head. I had not made the mistake of trying to plead the truth of my statement as though I needed to defend it. I had just told it simply to him and left him to judge its truth.
But as I stood on that crowded well deck, looking up at the impassive mask-like features of Marburg, I wondered whether there was not something else I could do. I felt the need for action. I felt the need to go to someone in authority – the Chief Commissioner, for instance, or a member of the Cabinet – and get them to act. But I knew that, because I could convince a man like Fisher, it did not necessarily mean that I could convince a Cabinet minister or a policeman. Fisher was a newspaper man. In him the will to believe was there, for it was a story. But anyone in authority would be unwilling to believe something that placed upon his already overweighted shoulders further responsibility. And though I felt the need for action, I knew that it was best left to Fisher. The best I could hope for myself would be that they would believe me. Action was another matter, and would only be reluctantly taken after everything had been checked and re-checked. But Fisher, with a powerful newspaper behind him, could demand action and, because of the threat of publicity, might be able to get it. I had left him in a state of growing excitement. ‘It’s terrific, Kilmartin,’ he had said, as he handed me the ten pound notes I had asked for. ‘I’ll get on to Sir John Keif – he’s our proprietor, you know. He’ll start things moving and we’ll get action in no time.’
I could only hope he was right. In just over twenty-four hours the Thirlmere would be steaming down the Thames. It seemed short enough time in which to get action. True the Thirlmere would have a naval escort as far as Norwegian territorial waters. That gave them another twelve hours, or perhaps a little more, in which to make up their minds. In all they had, perhaps, a little over thirty-six hours. Even as I arrived at this conclusion, the Finnish minister closed his speech amidst tumultuous cheers and Lord Waign began to speak on behalf of the British Government. And thirty-six hours seemed short enough. I had no illusions on the matter. The chances of Government action were remote, even though Fisher and Sir John Kelf used every endeavour to obtain at least the detention of the Thirlmere and an inquiry. The Government had given their blessing to this enterprise. And Marburg and his friends could pull strings. What, against these weighty considerations, was the fantastic statement of a K.C., however famous, who had first been reported dead and who, though now miraculously come to life, had nevertheless sent a ridiculous statement to the Yard only two days ago.
It was in a state of utter depression that, at the end of the ceremony, I wandered aft with the rest of the gathering. The captain, at the close of the affair, had given everyone the freedom of the decks, but had announced in broken English that, in view of the fact that this was a munitions ship, he had orders to allow no one below decks.
I found myself examining the powerful winch gear with a little sharp-featured man. His restless eyes met mine. ‘You press?’ he asked. I nodded. ‘What do you think of this for a bloody silly business? Every editor in the Street is yelling his head off for pro-Finnish stuff. And now when a story with a big British angle breaks, everything is frightfully hush-hush. “MacPherson,” my news editor says to me, “there’s a grand story here.” Grand story be damned! A lot of pious publicity-seeking drivel from Marburg. A lot more drivel from your Finn. And we’re not allowed below decks. How the hell do they expect one to get a good background story? I want to see for myself what they’ve got.’
I did not think he was being reasonable and said so. ‘You can’t expect them to allow a crowd like this to wander all over the ship. But Marburg knows the value of publicity. If several of us applied to him tomorrow for permission to look round, I expect we’d get it.’
At that he gave a short laugh. ‘What the devil’s the good of a permit tomorrow, when the ship sails tonight?’
We were walking round the stern of the ship and I checked in my stride. ‘Sailing tonight?’ I asked.
‘Yes. Can’t you see they’ve got steam up? All they’re waiting for is the torpedo boat. I happen to understand Norwegian and I heard the captain discussing the sailing with his mate. They leave with the ebb.’
I felt a sudden void in my stomach. Why the change of plan? The answer seemed plain enough, but it brought me little
joy. Things might not be going too well for them. In the circumstances they might well consider that my escape made it essential to get under way as soon as possible. But because they advanced their sailing date by twenty-four hours, it did not mean that Government action was imminent. In less than six hours the tide would be on the ebb and the Thirlmere would be outward bound. Within a little more than twenty hours the ship would reach Germany. I could not believe that Fisher and Keif would get Government action on a Sunday evening. And by dawn tomorrow the Thirlmere would be pounding her way towards Norwegian territorial waters. By midday she would be shot of her naval escort. The void in my stomach was caused by the knowledge that if I wanted action I should have to provide it myself. I had a vivid picture of myself standing over the hold with a hand-grenade in my hand, threatening to toss it amongst the cargo of high explosives, and I was wondering whether I should ever be able to summon up the courage to drop it if my bluff were called.
My companion had been talking and I suddenly caught the drift of his conversation. ‘There she is coming up the river now,’ he was saying. ‘Perhaps we’ll see something interesting after all. It’s the first time old Petersen has shipped a boat on board one of his ships. Have you ever seen them loading up with locomotives?’ I shook my head. We had climbed the iron ladder to the poop and I was peering past one of the lifeboats to see the sharp bows of a torpedo boat creaming the water brown as she ran smoothly up the centre of the river. ‘It’s an extraordinary sight,’ he went on. ‘The whole ship cants as the winch gear swings it on board. They shove the locomotives down in the hold. It’s specially constructed for that purpose. Then for the rolling stock, rails are run lengthways across the whole of this well deck and the carriages or trucks are lashed to its rails. By Jove! There’s someone going down into the hold. There, just below the bridge. See that little iron trapdoor?’ I was just in time to see the head and shoulders of one of the crew disappearing below the level of the brief fo’c’sle deck.
At the time I took little notice of this incident, for the torpedo boat was rapidly approaching the Thirlmere and it was there my interest lay. The crowd, which had already thinned – out, was lining the bulwarks of the well deck, peering down the river. The torpedo boat came up fast with the tide, swung in a wide circle and nosed up alongside the Thirlmere, the propeller creaming the water at her stern as she maintained way against the flow of the tide. Ropes were flung and she was made fast. The engine quietly running had a familiar sound, and I remembered the white-painted Sea Spray chugging out from Porthgwarra. It seemed incredible to think that this was the same engine. In place of the white friendly lines of Sea Spray was the dull grey menacing hull of this small warship. Over the pointed bows showed the muzzle of a small gun, and on either side of the short mast were multiple anti-aircraft pom-poms. Astern was the depth charge apparatus, and doubtless below the level of the water would be a torpedo tube.
In appearance, the boat was a warship. And as I stood there in the cold sunlight I had a feeling of admiration for the men who had planned this method of removing a secret diesel engine from the country. Looking at that devilish little craft, bristling with armaments, no one would give any attention to its engine. The boat was a Calboyd product and would, of course, be fitted with a Calboyd Dragon engine. Who was there to realise that that engine spelt disaster for one or other of two warring nations! Well, there was myself. And I was helpless. Should I stand up here on the poop and tell the press that installed in that boat was an engine that revolutionised aero engine production? Should I tell them that the Thirlmere was not bound for Finland at all, but for Germany, and that the volunteers were in reality Nazi agents? I could just imagine the laughter that would greet this denunciation, and the good-humoured comments as those same agents marched me ashore. Or there might be angry cries as the crowd denounced me for a communist. No, it was useless. I should achieve nothing that way. The stage had been too well set. Denunciations would only recoil upon the head of the denunciator.
Sailors had now climbed on to the poop and with a clatter the steam winches came to life. Slowly the great steel girder used for lifting locomotives and rolling stock was swung clear of the deck. Cloth-bound rope slings were attached to each end and the girder was swung out over the side of the Thirlmere and lowered until it was only a few feet above the boat, whose mast had been lowered.
For a time I became absorbed in the efforts of the crew of the boat to get the slings into position beneath the keel. I think it was the sound of a camera that made me turn. Almost directly behind me, one of the news-cameramen was taking shots of the man operating the steam winch. He was squatting on his heels, his broad back bent over his camera, which was lodged on a bollard. I was just turning away to see how the men on board the torpedo boat had progressed with their task, when he rose to his feet. Something about his figure made me hesitate. Then, as he picked up his camera and turned to find a new vantage point, I knew who he was.
‘David!’ I exclaimed.
He started and then stared at me as though I were a ghost. For a moment both of us were too surprised to speak. ‘Good God!’ he said. ‘It really is you, isn’t it?’
‘It certainly is,’ I replied. ‘What are you doing here? And what’s the news, David? Where’s Freya? There’s a whole heap of questions I want to ask you.’
‘And there’s a whole heap I want to ask you,’ he said. His eyes glanced furtively in the direction of the bridge. ‘I’m going to take a few shots from the stern,’ he added, bending to adjust the mechanism of his camera. ‘If the coast is clear, drop down and have a few words in a minute. They’re keeping an eye on me.’
I turned back and resumed my interest in the settling of the slings under the torpedo boat. They had managed to get the for’ard sling in position now. But I barely took in the scene below. My whole mind was concentrated on the fact of David’s presence. I heard him climb down the ladder on to the after deck. I glanced towards the bridge and caught my breath. Sedel was standing on the fo’c’sle. He was by himself and he seemed to be staring straight at me. I looked down again at the figures moving in the boat below. Had Sedel seen us talking? Was David really a suspect, and if so, why was the fool on board the Thirlmere at all? These and many other questions raced through my mind, and I was conscious all the time of my companion’s curiosity. But he had the self-control not to ask questions.
A seaman on the after deck suddenly raised his hand and the steam winches broke into clattering activity. The torpedo boat, now slung firmly below the girder, rose slowly from the water. Soon its decks were level with the poop on which we were standing and I could see its keel, with the water dripping from it. I glanced for’ard. Sedel had disappeared. Everyone’s attention seemed riveted on the torpedo boat. I climbed down on to the after deck and joined David, who was taking shots of the boat’s stern as it rose above the deck level.
He did not pause in his work or look up. ‘Thank God you’re all right, Andrew,’ he said. ‘When I saw that story in the evening papers yesterday I thought they must have got you.’
‘So they did,’ I said. ‘But I escaped.’
‘Well, they’re after me, too,’ he said. ‘That’s why you mustn’t be seen talking to me. I’ve been under observation ever since I came on board.’
‘Then why the devil did you come?’
‘I wanted to find out what had happened to Freya. And I’m going to find out before I leave this ship, if I have to break every bone in Marburg’s great carcass.’
‘Freya,’ I cried, with a sudden horrible fear. ‘They haven’t got Freya, have they?’
‘Afraid so,’ he said laconically.
I was on the point of cursing him. But he seemed to sense my condemnation, for he said, ‘I’m sorry, Andrew. I ought to have been more careful. I think they trailed me down from Calboyds. I arrived back at Guildford Street about nine yesterday morning with a pretty hot story, to find Freya in a terrible state of emotional turmoil. You were missing, and she had discovered he
r father was still alive. There had been a message for Olwyn in the personal column of the Daily Telegraph that morning. He had suggested a meeting place in Billingsgate, of all places, and we had just time to make the appointment. Yes, it was genuine, all right. I’ve never seen two people so overjoyed at seeing each other again. Freya told the old boy about your disappearance. He was very upset. He gave us the low-down on the whole thing then. Do you realise who is behind this business, Andrew?’
‘For goodness’ sake come to the point, David,’ I said. ‘What’s happened to Freya?’
‘But this is the point, old boy. The man behind this business is Baron Marburg, the banker.’
‘I know that,’ I said, losing my patience. ‘This munitions for Finland story is a ramp and there, in that boat, is Schmidt’s precious engine. But what’s happened to Freya?’
‘I’m sorry, Andrew.’ He was apologetic. ‘I don’t know. We left old Schmidt in Fish Street shortly after eleven yesterday morning. I left Freya to pick up an “18” bus and took the District to Westminster. That’s the last I saw of her. She never reached Guildford Street.’
‘And you went to see your godfather?’
‘Correct. And the old boy listened open-mouthed.’
‘And pigeon-holed your story as soon as the door was closed?’
David hesitated. ‘No, I don’t think so. He certainly didn’t believe me when I brought Marburg’s name into it. Schmidt could give no very convincing evidence. But I think he believed what I told him about Calboyds and about the stealing of the engine, and I fancy he’ll try to do something. But I’m afraid he found my accusations about the Thirlmere business as difficult to swallow as those about Marburg.’
‘But you don’t think anything will be done in time?’ I said.
‘Afraid not. At best they’ll be slow to reach a decision. But the other side is getting rattled. They’ve advanced the sailing schedule by twenty-four hours, and Marburg himself has suddenly decided to sail with the ship.’
The Trojan Horse Page 18