The Sign of Fear

by Robert Ryan

  In truth, the Channel that day was as far removed from the notoriously choppy Bay as was possible, mirror-calm and benevolent, with a gloriously warm late-summer sun reflected off it.

  Holmes and Bullimore stood at the rail, both men smoking.

  ‘Days like this, you wonder why everyone doesn’t just throw their weapons down, take off their shirts and lie down on a piece of grass,’ said Bullimore. ‘Have a day off from killing each other.’

  Holmes didn’t say anything.

  ‘I’m going to get hell for coming with you, you know. And for failing to apprehend Watson. There was a message at the station house this morning summoning me to see the super. I ignored it.’

  ‘You didn’t have to come.’

  There was an edge of sarcasm in Bullimore’s voice. ‘When will I next get to work with the great Sherlock Holmes?’

  Holmes brushed the hair from his eyes. ‘You are not working with me, Inspector. You are merely observing. And I suspect there will be precious little need for my powers of deduction. This is donkey work. But sometimes, it is the donkey work that uncovers what we seek.’

  ‘Donkey work. That’s what Amies called it. And look where that ended.’

  ‘I suspect the Dover Arrow mystery has little to do with bombing raids and currency,’ said Holmes.

  ‘Perhaps not. But I am curious to see where your trail leads. And there is Miss Pillbody to hunt down.’

  ‘You know, when you return I could always get Mycroft to tell your superintendent that you were working for him. In the national interest.’

  ‘Am I? Working in the national interest?’

  ‘One way or another, I believe you are,’ Holmes assured him. ‘In the long term, at least.’

  ‘Then I may call upon you for that favour.’

  ‘It would be my pleasure.’ Holmes turned to examine the policeman. ‘But there is something else. Another reason for your being here, to risk your very career. Something you aren’t sharing with me.’

  Bullimore gazed out to sea. ‘You wouldn’t understand, Mr Holmes.’

  ‘You can try.’

  ‘I have a feeling, no more than that, that this business of the Dover Arrow is somehow important to me, personally. But how it could be, I have no idea. I am sure you think that is foolish.’

  ‘Illogical, perhaps. But not foolish. Whatever that feeling is, it has a powerful pull. You would do well not to ignore it.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Holmes.’ Bullimore caught a half-formed yawn. ‘Sorry . . . those damn bombers and the guns kept me awake.’ The raids had lasted for hours and first reports were that London had been hit across a wide swathe, with bombs falling from Islington to Camberwell. ‘It’s a disgrace they can get through.’

  ‘I have given some thought to that,’ said Holmes. ‘I shall present a paper to the Air Ministry. You are right, London is not doing well. But we have all the elements in place – the observers, the acoustics bowls, the plotting rooms, the barrage balloons, the night fighters, the early warnings. But ad hoc. No one group talks to another. It is vital – vital – that they are co-ordinated. Because now the Germans have shown the power of the bomb, this threat will never go away. But, with the right system, I believe that the bomber can be, if not defeated, then at least to some extent neutralized.’

  They watched as four biplanes crossed the blue sky in front of them, as playful as mayflies as they swooped around each other. Replacements, Holmes thought. With a life expectancy not much longer than the insects they mimicked.

  ‘Have you ever been tempted in your line of work, Mr Holmes?’

  ‘Tempted? I have known temptations, certainly. Did you have something specific in mind?’

  ‘I was thinking, there we were at St Luke’s, surrounded by money. How easy it might have been to slip a stack of notes under one’s jacket.’

  ‘Ah! Money! The least interesting of the temptations in many ways. No, it has never been a weakness of mine. Perhaps because, while not rich, I have never wanted for anything.’ Holmes threw his cigarette overboard, watching it spark before it hit the swell and fizzled out. ‘Listen. Here that? The clicking?’ He turned and walked to an open hatch. ‘There are Xhosa men here. How fascinating.’ Then he abruptly turned back to Bullimore. ‘Who is she? This woman?’

  ‘Which woman?’

  ‘Come, come, Inspector. A man thinks wistfully about being rich . . . I see you dress modestly, even by a policeman’s standards. You do not frequent any fine restaurants, for you do not know Goldini’s. You do not gamble, because you did not know the main clubs, which, even if you couldn’t afford them, any gambler worth his chips would aspire to. You live, by your own admission, in the station house, so do not crave property. Now, what would suddenly turn a man’s thoughts to money? A woman. A mistress. No, if you live at the station house you are unmarried.’ Holmes furrowed his brow. ‘You are smitten with a woman above your station or at least above your income level.’

  ‘Mr Holmes—’

  ‘A child might also create this sudden desire for enough money to live comfortably. Does she have one or more? Or perhaps she is with child?’

  Bullimore shook his head. ‘What you do is so simple . . .’

  ‘So I have been told, many times.’

  ‘Yet can seem like sorcery. Her name is Marion.’

  ‘And she is spoken for?’

  ‘Married? Yes, very,’ he said.

  ‘But with child?’

  Bullimore nodded.

  ‘Your child, I presume. I can see it is a miserable situation.’

  ‘It is. What do you suggest I do?’

  Holmes laughed at the thought of him, of all people, dispensing guidance on matters of the heart. ‘What do I suggest? Oh, you wouldn’t want to hear that. I can offer but one piece of advice.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Don’t try to rob a bank. You have far too honest a face for such things. Look, I do believe that is the coast of France over there.’

  ‘I think,’ said Watson, as he finished his breakfast of sausages and bacon at the tavern where he and Hersch had talked the night before, ‘that you must be pulling my leg.’

  The admiral was opposite him, drinking a mug of tar-black coffee and smoking. Watson felt guilty about enjoying a meal in German-occupied territory quite so much, but the sausages were excellent, the bacon a little too fatty perhaps, but flavoursome, and the bread almost unadulterated.

  ‘In German we say, auf den Arm nehmen. It means the same, I think. Playing a joke on someone, yes?’

  ‘Yes. I do not think you can be serious.’

  ‘It is the best I can offer. Do you mind?’ He ground out the cigarette on Watson’s empty plate and lit another. ‘There are no crossing points where anyone is safe, even with a white flag. Not since your new offensive at Ypres. Which will not succeed, by the way.’

  ‘I’ll tell General Haig when I see him.’

  The admiral smiled. ‘Well, it would save a lot of wasted lives if you could. Landing by boat or submarine is possible, but we have, shall we say, a mixed record of success. Several agents we landed have been shot on sight. I don’t think you want that.’

  ‘Not if I can avoid it.’

  ‘And even if they didn’t shoot you, you would have quite a time explaining yourself. How you managed to catch a ride from a passing submarine or Torpedoboot. And then there are the mines . . .’

  ‘I take your point.’

  ‘To get you through Germany to Switzerland . . . complicated. It might take weeks.’

  ‘I need to be back before the inquiry into the Dover Arrow is convened,’ Watson reminded him. ‘If our witness is to have maximum impact.’

  ‘And we seem to be completely out of stock of captured British aircraft to ferry you over in. Also, as you discovered, that is not without its complications.’

  ‘I never did get to thank that pilot. I was too . . . dazed, I suppose, by the death of Miss Pillbody.’

  ‘Schrader, you mean? I can arrange
for you to go in his aircraft. He will be flying tonight.’

  ‘So let me see if I have this straight. You intend to put us on a bomber, en route to try to destroy London, and to get Harrow and me to jump, willingly, out of the aeroplane at twenty-thousand feet—’

  ‘Lower, I think.’

  ‘And use one of those ridiculous parachutes to float down to earth, where we’ll very likely break our necks.’

  ‘Ankles are much more common.’

  ‘And the failure rate of these giant handkerchiefs?’

  ‘When jumping from balloons, very good. One in twenty.’

  Watson helped himself to one of Hersch’s cigarettes. ‘And from an aeroplane?’

  Hersch scratched behind his ear before answering ‘I believe around a third of pilots or crew have died jumping from fighters or bombers.’

  ‘A third?’ Watson repeated. ‘Hardly reassuring.’

  ‘Ah, but you will have the new Heinecke harness and canopy. And remember, those pilots were jumping from burning or spinning planes. Very easy to get the shroud lines caught or burned through. You will be making the jump from a very stable platform.’

  ‘Which will then go on and bomb my city.’

  For the first time, Hersch looked impatient. ‘Which it will do with or without you and your witness. Will you make the jump?’

  That image came to Watson again, of Miss Pillbody spiralling down into the Channel, her body breaking on the waves. If a parachute failed, how long would he have before his body smashed into the earth? Ten seconds? Twenty? And all the time knowing that there was going to be a terrible flash of agony as bones broke and the torso burst like a ripe fruit before oblivion fell. Or did some benevolent God strip your senses before that gory impact?

  ‘Do I have any choice?’

  Hersch’s head moved from side to side, as if considering the options. ‘Another prisoner of war camp, perhaps.’

  ‘I’ll make the jump.’

  FIFTY

  Watson was amazed by the size of the aeroplane. It looked ten or twelve times larger than the Bristol, a great hulking behemoth that appeared too heavy to take to the air. Physics would not allow it, surely? Even the Gothas that had so terrorized London looked puny next to it.

  Hersch had driven him over to the airfield and reintroduced him to Schrader, who showed Watson around and indicated the section from where he and Harrow would jump. The German crouched down under the fuselage with an agility Watson envied. He bent his knees a little more gingerly and waddled in beside Schrader.

  ‘This section can be lowered, like a child’s slide,’ explained the Oberleutnant in his excellent English. ‘It is where the ventral machine gunner sits. We shall unclamp and remove the gun until you are safely out. To make sure there is nothing for you to snag on. The rails are quite smooth. You just have to roll your body over them and gravity will do the rest. But count to five when you are falling before pulling the cord, to make sure you are a good distance from the plane.’

  Watson looked to the rear and the wicked metal tail-slide, which was like a blade positioned to slice him in half when he exited the belly of the bomber.

  ‘Don’t worry about that. You and the aircraft will be travelling at the same speed. As long as you don’t deploy the ’chute too early you’ll be well clear of any part of the aircraft. Then once you’re out of the plane, I’ll get the hell out of there as fast as I can.’

  ‘You don’t seem too happy about this,’ said Watson.

  ‘I don’t claim to understand what you and the admiral are up to or why a British citizen, two British citizens, enemies of Germany, should be chauffeured home by the air force. I do know that I will have to lose altitude to drop you. That height is precious; it will take me a long time to get it back. And while I am doing that, I’m vulnerable to British night fighters.’

  Watson wasn’t sure what to say. Part of him wanted to thank Schrader for what he was doing, another thought the damned monster deserved to be shot down by British defenders.

  ‘Would you do it?’ Watson asked.

  ‘What, jump from an aeroplane putting my faith in a giant pair of bloomers to float down to the ground? I hope never to find out.’ Something caught Schrader’s attention and he swung out from under the fuselage. ‘We have to go.’

  Watson followed his gaze. Mechanics were wheeling several trolleys over to the plane. He could see they were stacked with what looked like toy bombs. Schrader grabbed his arm, pulled him from beneath the plane, spun him round and led him away from the Giant.

  ‘I’ll show you how the parachute fits when your friend arrives. In the meantime, Major, do you play chess?’

  ‘Yes. Not very well.’

  ‘Good,’ he grinned. ‘Let’s have a little wager.’

  ‘I have no money on me. None that you can use, at least.’

  ‘Not for money. If you win, then I will come down to below a thousand metres to drop you. I win, I come to only three thousand.’

  ‘So we are gambling with my life?’

  ‘We are gambling with the odds of both of us surviving. At a thousand metres that thing is a sitting duck, but you are at a good height for the parachute. At three thousand, I’m able to get back up that much quicker. You, on the other hand, have a long way to fall.’

  ‘Or float.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Schrader. ‘Or float. What do you say?’

  ‘Can I be white?’

  For the first few moves, they mirrored each other. The queen’s pawns faced off to each other on squares four and five. The white queen’s knight came out, as did the black king’s, to be confronted by Watson’s bishop.

  ‘So far, so conventional. We are very cautious men,’ said Schrader.

  ‘Lives are at stake,’ said Watson, considering his options. His chess game was adequate, no more. Holmes, of course, was an exceptional player when he put his mind to it. Where was that phantom voice in his head when he needed it?

  They were in the weather hut. Schrader had decided that Watson’s presence in the officers’ mess would generate too many questions and too much gossip and speculation. Trotzman came in from time to time, but if he was surprised by the presence of an Englishman, he didn’t show it.

  ‘Er betrügt,’ he said at one point, wagging a warning finger at Watson.

  Watson knew what that meant. He cheats.

  ‘Only against him,’ Schrader said to Watson, moving a rook’s pawn out to intimidate the white bishop. ‘And I don’t really have to cheat to beat him. But it makes him feel better if he thinks I rely on devious means, rather than skill. Your move.’

  Watson retreated, one square. ‘I’m having trouble with you.’

  ‘Not yet, surely.’ Schrader’s second knight came out. ‘This is merely sparring.’

  ‘No, I mean with you as a person.’ Queen’s pawn to d3.

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Well, you seem like a decent chap . . .’

  Schrader laughed. ‘A decent chap? How terribly English.’ The king’s bishop broke out.

  ‘Yet here you are, flying that, that aberration over London, killing innocent men and women.’

  The smile faded. ‘Are there any innocents in war?’

  Watson advanced a pawn one square. ‘I’ve seen them. Alive and dead. All over my city.’

  ‘All of London is considered a military target,’ Schrader said, repeating what he told himself on every mission. ‘They should send the women and children away instead of complaining about them being in the way.’

  ‘Those that can afford to do so have done just that. Which leaves an awful lot of people at the mercy of your bombs.’

  Schrader sighed. ‘Above all, Major, men like us have to do their duty. Even if we don’t agree with it or fully understand it. Otherwise, what is the point of an army, a navy or an air force?’

  ‘Perhaps we should try to see how we get along without them.’

  ‘Now you don’t sound terribly convincing, Major.’ A pawn was brought o
ut to threaten Watson’s bishop. ‘I have to believe what I am doing will shorten the war in Germany’s favour. You started this, remember?’

  Watson moved the bishop to safety. ‘To this day, I am not entirely sure how we got to this point from a bullet in Sarajevo.’

  Another black pawn moved forward. There was a wall of them now across the centre of the board. Was Schrader playing chess like trench warfare, creating a miniature Hindenburg Line?

  ‘You think perhaps we should have settled our differences over a game of chess?’ asked the German.

  Watson positioned his queen in front of the king. ‘Better than bombing cities.’

  Schrader pondered for a moment, castled his king, then looked up from the board. ‘I hope you remember that when your bombers come over to Hamburg and Dresden and Cologne and Berlin. As they surely will.’

  Watson slid his bishop out to threaten Schrader’s rear lines. ‘Well, you started that one. The bombing campaign, I mean.’

  The German gave a wry smile. ‘I had hoped to finish it. Quickly.’

  ‘With those little bombs?’

  Schrader wagged a finger. ‘I’ll forget you said that. And don’t say anything to anyone about them. Understood? Or they won’t be sending you anywhere other than a cell. You saw nothing. All right?’ A black pawn came forward menacingly, a white pawn or a knight in its sights.

  Watson nodded his agreement and took the pawn. He had what he wanted from the exchange – if Schrader was touchy about the bombs, they had to be something new and secret.

  The game moved on, not inspired, perhaps, but with a relentless logic. Schrader’s queen came out like a marauding Dreadnought. Watson castled. Then, on move eighteen, his concentration lapsed and he was punished by Schrader taking his queen. Two moves later, he retaliated by wiping the black queen off the board. But by a dogged use of his knights and castles, Schrader surrounded Watson, and by move 35 the Englishman knew he was doomed.