Trouble on the Thames: A British Library Spy Classic (British Library Spy Classics Book 1)

by Victor Bridges

  ***

  Though only a stone’s throw from Victoria Street, Queen Anne’s Gate still retains a good deal of its mellow eighteenth-century charm. Notwithstanding the fact that most of its houses have been altered for the use of government departments, Time and the Office of Works have not yet succeeded in wholly eradicating that gracious atmosphere of a bygone London, towards the final destruction of which their relentless energies are apparently directed. Even to-day the spectacle of a sedan chair in that sedate backwater would seem far more in harmony with the general background than the haughty and contemptuous swish past of the customary Rolls-Royce.

  Unlike the majority of its neighbours, number 17A had no official door-plate decorating its discreet but pleasant-looking exterior. It was a narrow, three-storey house with long, old-fashioned windows. The only modern thing about it was an electric bell, and having pressed this, Owen straightened up expectantly and threw away the end of his half-smoked cigarette. For some obscure reason he was conscious of a vague and rather irritating feeling of nervousness.

  Almost immediately the door was opened by a middle-aged manservant who had the air and appearance of a retired sergeant of marines. His hard blue eyes submitted the visitor to a swift but searching inspection.

  “I wish to see Captain Greystoke.” Owen produced a visiting-card. “I have an appointment with him for eleven-thirty.”

  “Yes, sir. The Captain is expecting you. If you will come with me I will take you up to him at once.”

  Crossing a circular-shaped hall, they ascended a steep flight of stairs. On arriving at the first landing, the man halted outside a room on the right. In response to his tap somebody rapped out a curt “Come in,” and the next instant Owen found himself being ushered into a high-ceilinged, oak-panelled apartment, the bow windows of which looked out over St. James’s Park. Its only occupant, who was seated at a table in the centre, pushed aside some papers and rose to his feet.

  “Lieutenant-Commander Bradwell, sir.”

  Captain Greystoke, a short, stockily-built man with a determined mouth and a pair of remarkably shrewd eyes, stepped forward and held out his hand.

  “Ah, Bradwell, glad to make your acquaintance.” He imprisoned Owen’s fingers in a sudden crushing grip, and then, releasing them abruptly, glanced across at his henchman. “I don’t want to be disturbed for the next quarter of an hour, Barnes. If anyone rings up put them through to Mr. Everett.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  The door closed quietly, and moving back to the table, Captain Greystoke picked up a box of cigars.

  “Try one of these, unless you prefer a cigarette. If you do, you’ll find some in that box over there.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Owen helped himself to an imposing-looking Cabana, and feeling a trifle surprised at the unexpected friendliness of his reception, sat down in the chair towards which his host had made an inviting gesture. Captain Greystoke resumed his former seat, and for a moment the two of them faced each other in silence.

  “I expect you have been wondering why I invited you to look me up.” The speaker smiled pleasantly. “The fact is I had a letter from your skipper, my old friend Carmichael. He told me about this unfortunate business of your suddenly going colour-blind. I understand that it happened on your way home from China.”

  “That’s so, sir. Came on without the slightest warning.”

  “He mentioned that you had been before a Medical Board at Plymouth, and that they were sending you up to Town to consult a specialist.”

  Owen nodded.

  “Have you seen him?”

  “I had an appointment yesterday, sir. He examined me thoroughly, and then—well, then he what you might call passed sentence. He told me that my chances of recovery were about one in a thousand.”

  “Bad as that!” Greystoke leaned back in his chair. “I am sorry—very sorry. Afraid it must have been rather an unpleasant dose to swallow.”

  “I was more or less prepared for it. I could see what I was up against by the M.O.’s manner at Plymouth.”

  “Still, I don’t imagine it would ease the blow to any great extent.”

  “Not that you’d notice, sir.” Owen smiled crookedly. “When one’s whole career is suddenly knocked edgeways—”

  “Mustn’t talk like that, Bradwell.” The elder man shook his head. “I’m not trying to minimise the disaster: it’s a heartrending thing to happen to anyone, especially to a fellow of your age. I realise exactly what it means to you; but as far as its putting an end to your career is concerned—well, that’s absolute nonsense. You don’t imagine that in the present state of affairs we are going to allow a man with your record to slip through our fingers?”

  A tinge of colour mounted into Owen’s tanned cheeks.

  “You think they could still find some use for me, sir?”

  “Plenty of uses. When the balloon goes up—as it very soon will—every experienced officer will be absolutely invaluable. In a sense, Bradwell, you’re lucky. If this had occurred five or six years ago you wouldn’t have stood a chance. They would merely have opened the door politely and bowed you out. As it is, you can make your mind quite easy. Strictly between ourselves, I have already brought your case to the notice of the Second Lord, and I can guarantee that in a very short while you will find yourself posted to a job ashore in which the trouble with your eyesight won’t handicap you in the slightest. I know it isn’t the same thing as having a commission afloat, but whatever the work is it will be just as essential to the Service, and, if it’s any consolation, you will probably stand just as good a chance of being blown to smithereens. There will be no ‘cushy billets’ this time—the Luftwaffe will look after that for us.”

  “It’s very kind of you, sir, and I am extremely grateful.” Owen paused. “I don’t know why you should have troubled yourself—”

  “As I mentioned before, I have been in communication with Carmichael.” Greystoke tipped off the end of his cigar. “He seems to have rather a high opinion of you, Bradwell. I won’t tell you what he actually said or it might make you conceited.”

  Owen smiled uncomfortably. “That’s—that’s Captain Carmichael’s way, sir. He is always ready to do a good turn to anyone who has served under him.”

  “I doubt it. I am inclined to give him credit for being a trifle more selective than you appear to imagine. Anyhow, his judgment is good enough for me, and I have reason to assume that it carries a certain amount of weight at the Admiralty. Otherwise. I should not have been empowered to make a certain suggestion which may or may not appeal to you.”

  Owen’s face lit up hopefully. “I should be very interested to know what it is, sir.”

  “When you were out in China did you happen to hear anything about a man called Medlicot—Lieutenant A. G. Medlicot? He must have been a year or two junior to you.”

  “I saw that he had died, sir. There was a notice in one of the papers just before we sailed for home.”

  “Yes, he died rather suddenly. In fact—this is absolutely private and mustn’t go any farther—he took his own life by shooting himself through the head.”

  Owen raised his eyebrows. “What on earth made him do that, sir?”

  “I imagine that it was partly remorse and partly because he considered it to be the best way out. If he hadn’t committed suicide he would have been arrested and tried for treason.”

  “Treason!”

  “I am afraid that is the only word one can use.” The speaker paused. “It was a bad business in every way. Medlicot was a bit of a genius in his own line, and for nearly a year before he died he had been conducting experimental work on some new gadget in connection with submarines. There is no need to enter into further details at the moment. All that matters is that the invention panned out very satisfactorily, and we were just congratulating ourselves that we were one up on the Boche when we learned through an agent
that a complete copy of the plans had been sent over to Berlin, and that our Nazi friends were already hard at work on them. As you can well believe, this was something of a facer.”

  Owen moistened his lips. “You mean that Medlicot had sold them?”

  “There was no other conceivable explanation. Only four people had the necessary knowledge, and three of them were men whom it would be quite ridiculous to suspect. Besides”—Greystoke gave the faintest possible shrug—“we have a written confession which settles the matter beyond question. He must have posted it just before he shot himself.”

  “It seems unbelievable.” Owen sat for an instant staring silently at his companion. “I ran across Medlicot once at Harwich, and he struck me as being a thoroughly decent fellow. What made him do such a damnable thing?”

  “Ah! Now we are coming to the point. You know your way about the West End, Bradwell. I don’t want you to think that I have been delving impertinently into your private affairs, but I am informed that you are one of those fortunate mortals who are not entirely dependent on their pay, and that when you have a spot of leave you generally put in a day or two in Town. Is that correct?”

  Owen nodded. “My father left me quite comfortably off, sir, and I have a good many friends in London. I like to look them up every now and then.”

  “Quite so. Ever heard of a man named Mark Craig?”

  “Mark Craig? Sounds vaguely familiar, but I can’t place him at the moment.”

  “He runs a club in Grosvenor Street—very posh, expensive place where a crowd of rich people go to play poker. It’s called the Mayflower.”

  “Oh, yes, I remember now, sir. I have never been there myself, but I have met blokes who belong to it.”

  “You have met one, anyhow. Medlicot was a member. If he hadn’t enjoyed that distinction he would probably be alive now.”

  “You mean he had been losing money there, sir?”

  “Quite a lot, I imagine. We have no actual proof of that, but everything seems to point to it. I fancy that he was being threatened with exposure, and that in a moment of desperation he sold those plans in order to settle up his debts.”

  “But couldn’t you find out for certain?”

  “Not so easy, Bradwell. We did our utmost, of course, but in a case of suicide people are uncommonly shy about giving anything away. Don’t want to be dragged into a scandal.”

  “Wasn’t there an official inquiry?”

  “A very private one. You see, the mischief was done, and there was no sense in advertising the fact to the whole world. Besides, we had grounds for suspecting a certain highly placed gentleman at the German Embassy. If his name had cropped up the fat would have been in the fire. Our ingenuous government still seem to be under the illusion that they can scrape through without going to war, and to bring a charge of that nature against a prominent Hun diplomat without cast-iron evidence to back it up—well, the mere suggestion would be sufficient to throw the whole Foreign Office into hysterics.”

  “But surely something ought to be done, sir? If they can get hold of one set of plans—”

  “They might be tempted to repeat the experiment? Exactly. You have hit upon the very point which is at present giving my particular department an outsize in headaches. I can assure you that the Mayflower Club and its proprietor are a subject of the deepest interest to us.”

  “Who is this fellow Mark Craig, sir? Is that his real name?”

  “So far as I know. He is an Irish American who has spent most of his early life in the States. He came over here six years ago with a certain amount of cash, and very soon afterwards he launched out in his present racket in Grosvenor Street. He must be a clever devil—I’ll give him credit for that. The place was a success from the first, and although the police have been keeping an eye on it they have never caught him out in any actual infringement of the law. All the same, they are convinced that he’s a bad lot, and that when he sees the chance he has no objection to doing a bit of blackmailing. My own belief is that he’s a Nazi agent, and that he is being subsidised from Berlin.”

  “Isn’t that good enough, sir? Can’t you have him arrested and locked up?”

  “Might be arranged, but it would only mean that the work would be handed over to somebody else. As it is, we at least have the advantage of knowing where the mischief is likely to be hatched. Unfortunately, if the thing is as well organised as it appears to be, Mr. Craig and his friends are probably pretty well posted with regard to our own activities. I have several first-class men working under my direction, but I wouldn’t mind betting a hundred pounds that every one of them is either known or suspected. When it comes to spying the Hun does his job thoroughly.”

  Owen looked straight into the shrewd grey eyes that were fixed steadily on his own. “I take it that you have some special reason for telling me all this, sir.”

  “Naturally.” The other leaned back in his chair. “I think you might be useful to me, Bradwell. You are being given two months’ sick leave, and if you feel like putting your services at my disposal for that period I am quite prepared to accept your offer. The whole arrangement, of course, would be strictly unofficial.”

  “Sounds all right to me, sir. I don’t imagine I should be much good as a detective, though.”

  “Possibly not. Still, Carmichael is a fairly sound judge of character, and if his statements about you are correct, I believe we are justified in making the experiment.” Greystoke gave another of his oddly attractive smiles. “After all, there is a certain amount of scientific evidence in favour of such a proceeding. According to Edridge-Green, who is the principal authority on the subject, people who suffer from colour-blindness are generally above the average in intelligence. Perhaps that is why it is so rare amongst our Cabinet Ministers.”

  Owen laughed.

  “Well, what have you got to say about it? Does the prospect appeal to you?”

  “I should be delighted to have a try, sir.”

  “Excellent. I had better explain what I have in my mind. As I told you a moment ago, we are keeping a close eye on the Mayflower Club, and also on its distinguished clientele. Two of my staff are actually members, but since it’s more than likely that our friend Mr. Craig is well aware of the fact, I should imagine that any dirty work he may be arranging to pull off will probably be discussed somewhere else. The most likely place I can think of would be Otter’s Holt, the island he owns down at Thames Ferry. Do you happen to know it by any chance?”

  “I know where it is, sir. About three miles below Playford.”

  “That’s right.” Greystoke nodded. “He bought it last year, and I understand he goes down there most week-ends. Occasionally, I believe, he entertains friends. Now I could have the place watched, of course, either by my own people or by fixing things up with the local police. The trouble is that I daren’t take the risk. If Craig is really using it as his private headquarters any hint that we are showing an interest in it would put him on his guard immediately. Whoever I selected myself might be known to him by sight, and in a Thames village a plain-clothes policeman lounging about the towpath would stick out like a lighted buoy. No, what I want is something quite different—some normal, harmless young holidaymaker who will fit naturally into the landscape. Get the idea?”

  “I think so, sir.” Owen grinned. “It’s a funny coincidence, but I really had some notion of putting in a day or two on the river, and, oddly enough, in that very neighbourhood. I am staying with a pal who has a punt laid up at Playford, and he told me I could borrow it whenever I liked.”

  “Looks as though Providence were taking a hand in the game. What I am most anxious to obtain is a list of Mr. Craig’s visitors. I should be glad to have an accurate description of everyone who sets foot on the island, but the gentleman I am chiefly interested in is our friend from Carlton House Terrace. If there is any further trouble brewing he is pretty sure to be somewhere in
the offing.”

  “What sort of a chap is he, sir?”

  “A man of about forty. Tall, long-faced fellow with very thin lips. Generally sports an eyeglass. His name—for Heaven’s sake keep this to yourself—is Manstein, Count Conrad von Manstein. He is that unpleasant mixture, a cross between a Prussian Junker and a genuinely fanatical Nazi, about the worst abortion that nature has yet produced. Exactly what his position is at the Embassy I don’t know. Some people say that he is Hitler’s personal representative, but the only thing I am practically certain of is that he was the moving spirit in the Medlicot affair. I regard him as the most dangerous man we are up against—a cunning, cold-blooded brute, utterly ruthless and without the slightest trace of fear in his whole composition.”

  “Sounds rather an ugly customer,” remarked Owen cheerfully. “Well, I ought to be able to recognise him from your description.” He paused. “I think the best thing I can do will be to drift down there Thursday or Friday and hang around doing a bit of fishing below the weir. Lots of people spend their week-ends that way, so it won’t attract any particular attention. I’ve just remembered something else, too. There’s a pub in the backwater opposite, and if I keep my ears open I may pick up a few useful hints. Sure to be a certain amount of gossip floating about—always is in those riverside joints.”

  “Very sound programme.” Greystoke nodded approvingly. “You will have to be careful, though—damned careful. Remember that we are dealing with people who stick at nothing, and if it came to their notice that you were asking questions about Otter’s Holt it’s more than possible that they might turn exceedingly nasty. I should hate to pick up the Sunday paper and read about your body being fished out of the river!”

  “I shan’t overlook that fact, sir.”

  “Good! I am not over-sanguine about the business as it is, but you would certainly be no use to me as a corpse. On the contrary, I should find you a confounded nuisance.” Pulling a slip of paper towards him, the speaker jotted down a telephone number and passed it across the table. “If you have news for me you can ring me up. Don’t say anything over the phone, and don’t on any account come here again unless you have a definite appointment. Is that quite plain?”