“Absolutely, sir.”
“Then the only other point is the question of funds. As I have said, this little experiment is entirely unofficial, but at the same time it would be unfair to expect you to dip into your own pocket.” Greystoke unlocked a drawer and produced a small packet of notes. “You had better take ten pounds to cover your immediate expenses. Judging from my own recollections, riverside inns are apt to be a trifle exorbitant in their charges.”
With a word of thanks Owen slipped the money into his pocket, and then, picking up his hat, rose to his feet.
“Very good of you to give me this chance of doing something, sir,” he said quietly. “I only hope I don’t let you down.”
“It wouldn’t be the first time I had undergone that experience.” The Captain’s eyes twinkled, and getting up also, he held out his hand. “If it’s any encouragement, though, I have an odd faith in you, Bradwell. I may be superstitious, but I feel that you have been sent along here for this particular purpose.” He paused, “And on the rare occasions when I do get a hunch,” he added, “it generally turns out to be a winner.”
Chapter IV
“More tea?”
“No, thanks.” Mark Craig put down his cup and lighted a cigarette. Then, settling himself back comfortably, he half closed his heavily lidded eyes and contemplated his hostess with a kind of slow, sensuous satisfaction.
It must be admitted that Olga Brandon was well worth inspection. Even the ultra-modern room, with its steel chairs, its glass table and its inevitable cocktail cabinet, did little to detract from the dark, exotic beauty inherited from her Romanian mother, for which only a dream palace out of some opium-inspired romance by Mr. Coleridge would really have provided an appropriate setting. That it should triumph so successfully over the chill bleakness of an up-to-date St. John’s Wood villa was perhaps the finest tribute that could be offered in its honour.
“Well,” demanded Craig, “what’s this latest bit of news that you were hinting at? Anything really useful?”
“I guess so.” Olga smiled complacently. “Like to have the low-down on a new airfield, wouldn’t you, especially if it happens to be on the east coast?”
“A new airfield! Where did you get your information?”
“From a boy I met at a night-club about three weeks ago. He fell for me with a crash, and since then he has been taking me out quite a lot. Seems to have plenty of the needful, so I thought I might as well cultivate him.”
“What’s his name?”
“Forsyth—Desmond Forsyth. Boring as Hell, but right out of the top drawer—Eton and Oxford and all that sort of stuff. His father has got a big place up in Norfolk—owns about half the county, apparently.”
“That must be Sir George Forsyth.” Craig nodded. “I know something about him. Goes in for yacht racing, and used to be a Member of Parliament at one time.”
“Very likely.” Olga shrugged.
“What did this boy tell you?”
“Oh, he was a bit oiled and chucking his money about in the way kids like that do. I asked him whether he could really afford it, and he said that just at the moment he was particularly flush because his old man had pulled off a good deal and sent him along a cheque. Didn’t want to talk about it at first, and that made me curious. I jockeyed him into having two or three more drinks, and then out he came with the whole yarn. Seems that the Air Ministry have taken over some of the family property and stumped up handsomely. Very hush-hush affair, of course, and I wasn’t to breathe a word to a soul. Wouldn’t have mentioned it if he hadn’t known that I could be absolutely trusted.”
“Did you find out the exact site?”
“Think I’m dumb?” Olga laughed. “It’s a three-mile stretch just south of a place called King’s Welcome. Nice lonely bit of country as flat as a pancake. They’ve got a gang of men working there already, railing it off with barbed wire. Going to be one of the biggest aerodromes in England when it’s finished—everything O.K. and slap up-to-date.”
“Sounds decidedly interesting.” Craig gave an approving nod. “I must congratulate you on a smart job of work.”
“Thanks, but I wasn’t looking for compliments. What I could do with is something a bit more solid. Surely the right dope on a new airfield—”
“You can leave that to me. Our friends are always prepared to pay for what they want. They are too clever to be mean about trifles.”
Olga Brandon sat silent for a moment, staring thoughtfully at the speaker’s face.
“You believe in them thoroughly, don’t you, Mark? You haven’t the slightest doubt that they are going to pull it off?”
“None whatever. Within two years at the utmost the Germans will be the masters of the whole of Europe. Nothing can prevent it.”
“You will be a very important man.” Olga’s fingers tightened. “You will have money—money and power.”
“A good deal of both if all goes well. One has to take risks, of course.”
“How long do you think it will be before things begin to happen?”
“They are happening now. Preparations are going on night and day everywhere.” The clock on the mantelpiece tinkled out the half-hour, and glancing across the room, Craig pushed back his chair.
“What’s the matter? You’re not off yet, are you?”
“I must get along to the Club. I have an appointment for six-thirty. By the way, I believe you’ve met the man—a fellow called Granville Sutton.”
“What does he want?”
“Haven’t a notion. He rang up this morning while I was out, and Casey gave him a date. All I know about him is that he’s got a bungalow at Playford and that he used to be rather thick with that young fool Medlicot.”
“He couldn’t make any trouble, could he?”
“Only for himself, I should say.” Craig gave an ugly laugh. “It’s probably nothing of any importance; still, I thought I had better see him and find out.” He moved forward to where Olga was sitting, and bending down, kissed her on the lips. “One-thirty at the Milan to-morrow then, and it’s just possible that I may have some good news for you. No, don’t trouble to disturb yourself, my dear. I have been here often enough to find my way out.”
***
The taxi swerved round the corner into Grosvenor Street, and pulled up in front of a house on the north-west side. It was a large, four-storey house with a discreetly prosperous appearance. Neatly kept flower-boxes adorned the lower windows, and on one of the two pillars which sheltered the handsome door in the centre could be observed a small brass plate engraved with the words “The Mayflower Club.” Except for this laconic announcement one would have taken it to be the Town residence of some affluent or distinguished family.
“Paper, sir?”
A passing newsvendor halted inquiringly, and purchasing a late Star, Craig paid off the driver and moved leisurely across the pavement. The door was opened by a stalwart commissionaire who gave him a respectful salute, and passing through a handsomely furnished hall, he jerked back the gate of an automatic lift. A few moments later he was stepping out on to the top landing—a small private suite shut off from the rest of the establishment which he had had fitted up for his own use.
The apartment he entered was a cross between an office and an expensively equipped sitting-room. At one end of it an American desk and a couple of large filing cabinets took up most of the available space, but everywhere else there was a suggestion of solid—even luxurious—comfort, the most noticeable example of which was the deep, cushion-piled, leather divan that occupied the whole corner between the window and the fireplace. Judging by the pictures that decorated the walls, a generous appreciation of the nude in art was one of their owner’s principal characteristics.
Moving over to the desk, Craig glanced through a small pile of letters which had arrived by the midday post. Most of them he tossed into the waste-paper
basket, and leaving the remnant to be attended to later on, settled down in the nearest arm-chair and unfolded his copy of the Star. Then, pulling out his note-case, he extracted a slip of paper containing a list of the bets which he had made earlier in the day. At that precise moment several thousand other inhabitants of Great Britain were doubtless engaged in the same hopeful occupation.
He was in the act of turning to the racing news when a lavishly splashed headline on the front page suddenly arrested his attention. Almost simultaneously his eyes fell upon the opening paragraph below. The muscles of his jaw tightened, and bending forward over the column in question, he began to read it with a tense and concentrated interest.
DARING ESCAPE FROM DARTMOOR
Convict Scales Prison Wall
Early this morning a convict named James Wilson, who is serving a seven-years sentence for embezzlement, effected what may justly be described as the most ingenious and daring escape from Dartmoor prison that has ever been recorded in the annals of that famous institution. During the summer months from May to September prisoners have their breakfast at six-thirty. The meal is served in a large building situated in the main courtyard. It is prepared in a neighbouring shed some ten yards away, the trays being carried across by specially selected men, all of whom must have earned full remission marks for good conduct before being detailed for this particular duty. Between each delivery there is an interval of perhaps twelve seconds, and throughout the proceedings an armed warder is constantly patrolling the yard. Only for one brief period is he actually out of sight of the short passage between the two buildings.
Wilson, who was evidently waiting his chance and must have made his plans with meticulous care, was released from his cell at the customary hour of a quarter-past six. The warder on duty failed to detect anything amiss, though a more thorough investigation would have revealed several highly interesting facts. During the night Wilson had occupied himself in tearing his under blanket into long strips and then knotting the ends of them together so as to construct a rough but fairly serviceable rope. To this he had attached the strong canvas slip which provided the covering for his bolster, fastening the whole contraption round his waist with such skill that it successfully escaped the perfunctory examination to which he must have known from experience that he would probably be subjected.
On arriving at the cook-house he took his place among the other men, and in due course was handed the tray which it was his duty to carry across to the adjacent breakfast hall. Instead of doing so he made his way quickly towards a large heap of gravel that had been deposited inside the yard a few days previously. Here he put down the tray, and having removed the rope which encircled his waist, hastily proceeded to load the canvas bolster slip from the convenient dump beside him. Taking advantage of the moment when the patrolling warder was out of sight he then flung up the weighted bag with such accuracy that it impaled itself upon the iron spikes at the top of the fourteen-foot wall. For an active man the rest was comparatively simple. Within a few seconds the resourceful Mr. Wilson was astride the coping, where, unhooking his amateur rope ladder, he lowered himself by his arms and dropped on the soft turf outside. It is believed that this gymnastic feat must have been witnessed by a fellow convict who was the next to leave the shed, but, true to the proverbial honour that prevails among wrongdoers, the man in question stoutly denies having observed any such dramatic incident. Although one or two local farm hands were in the neighbourhood at the time, the fact that there was a considerable amount of mist would explain why none of them has been able to add anything further to what the authorities already know.
As some ten minutes appear to have elapsed before the alarm was raised, Wilson must have had time to reach the shelter of one of the large straggling plantations that adjoin the prison. Since then nothing has been seen or heard of him. An intensive search of the surrounding moor, however, is now in progress, and with all the roads watched and every car and vehicle being held up for examination, it is not considered likely that the fugitive’s spell of liberty will be of very long duration. Contrary to the popular belief, founded upon sensational films and novels, every prisoner who has so far escaped from Dartmoor has been recaptured. In the majority of cases men give themselves up voluntarily on account of the hunger and exposure to which they are subjected.
***
For several seconds after he had finished reading Craig sat staring straight in front of him, his underlip stuck out, his thick eyebrows drawn together in a reflective scowl. Then, getting up abruptly and moving back to the desk, he pressed one of the three buttons which stood in a row beside the large writing-pad. It was apparent that his interest in the day’s racing had been temporarily overshadowed.
After a short interval the door opened quietly, admitting a dark-haired, sleek-looking man of about forty with an oddly expressionless face. He was wearing a well-cut morning suit and had a red carnation in the buttonhole of his coat.
“Didn’t know you were back,” he observed, glancing at the opened letters. “I was wondering whether you’d forgotten that appointment with Sutton.”
“No, I remembered it all right.” Craig paused. “Seen the evening paper?”
“Not yet. Anything special in it?”
“Have a look at this story on the front page.”
Mr. Paul Casey, the highly efficient manager of the Mayflower, took the Star which his employer held out to him. The next moment a low, surprised whistle escaped from his lips.
“Wilson, by all the saints! Done a bunk from Dartmoor, has he? Well, damn my soul, I’d—”
“Read it,” said Craig curtly.
Complying with the order, Casey perched himself on the arm of a chair and ran his eye swiftly down the column. That the news had considerably startled him had been obvious from his first reaction, but now that he had had time to recover, his face betrayed no further sign of emotion. Not until he had reached the end did he offer anything in the way of a comment.
“Got more guts than I gave him credit for,” he remarked, looking up from the paper. “Never be certain with fellows like that. What do you imagine his game is?”
“I should say that he had only one idea in his head.” Craig spoke with complete calmness. “That’s to come up here and stick a knife into me. It’s what he threatened to do the last time I had the pleasure of seeing him.”
Casey raised his eyebrows. “Mean that seriously?”
The other nodded. “I know his type. They’re easy enough game, but once they’ve got hold of the notion that somebody’s been leading them up the garden they’re apt to go clean off the rails. Wouldn’t mind betting that for the last two years Wilson has been sitting in his cell thinking of nothing else but how to get level with us. Became a sort of fixed idea, as the French call it. Otherwise he’d never have been such an idiot as to break out of prison.”
“Shouldn’t wonder if you’re right: you generally are. All the same, I don’t think we need lose any sleep over it.” Casey shrugged. “It’s a longish step from Dartmoor to Grosvenor Street, and—”
“I’m quite aware of that fact, and I’m not in the least worried. The odds are that he’ll be inside again within forty-eight hours. Still, there’s just the bare chance he might give them the slip; and that being the case, it’s only common sense to keep our eyes open. How about Johnson? D’you suppose he’d recognise the fool if he spotted him hanging around here?”
“Bound to, I should think. Shall I give him the tip?”
“No, I’ll speak to him myself, that will be best. Don’t start talking about it in the Club, but if you should happen to hear any of them airing their views to-night I’d be interested to know what they’ve got to say.” Craig looked at his watch. “Well, it’s just on the half-hour, so I suppose this fellow Sutton will be showing up in a minute. No idea what he wants, but he was by way of being a friend of Medlicot, so he may need a bit of careful handling. I’d like you
to bring him up yourself and wait in the other room. If I switch on the light it will mean that I’ve had enough of him and you can come in with a telephone message or something.”
“Right you are. I’ll go down to the hall and collect him there.”
With an understanding nod Casey took his departure, and picking up the discarded paper, Craig settled down again to his interrupted research into the results of the Epsom meeting. The discovery that one of the two horses which he had coupled together in a highly promising double had been beaten in the last stride by a short head was scarcely calculated to improve his temper. Fate at the moment was obviously in a malicious mood; and when the muffled clang of the lift gate suddenly reached his ears, it was with a singularly inhospitable expression that he swung round to face the door.
By contrast, the man who entered in company with Casey seemed to be remarkably at his ease. About thirty years of age, good-looking and faultlessly dressed, he carried himself with that air of slightly insolent confidence which in the case of a large number of women appears to invest its owner with an immediate and almost irresistible attraction. The only blemish to which a captious critic might have drawn attention was the undeniable fact that his eyes were set a shade too closely together.
“Happened to run across Mr. Sutton down in the hall,” announced Casey blandly. “He reminded me that he had an appointment for six-thirty, so I’ve brought him up straight away.”
“Ah yes, I’ve got a note of it here.” Without any visible sign of enthusiasm Craig pushed forward a chair. “Won’t you sit down and help yourself to a cigarette? I seem to know your name, but I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure of meeting you before.”
“Not that I can remember, though, as a matter of fact, we are fairly close neighbours.” In a lazily assured fashion the visitor took possession of the proffered seat. “I have a bungalow at Playford, about a couple of miles above Otter’s Holt.”
Trouble on the Thames: A British Library Spy Classic (British Library Spy Classics Book 1) Page 5