by Greenberg
“Excellent,” said Mr. Calder.
“I’d better take Mr. Behrens out now, or sister will start worrying. I’ll show him the back way in along the balcony.”
When they were alone together, Mr. Calder said, “You can tell Fortescue, of course. But no one else. I’m going to clear out as soon as it’s dark. Dr. Henfry is fetching me.”
“I assume you’re going under cover?”
“We both are. We’ll use Mrs. Palfrey’s.”
“Is this just general caution . . . or something special?”
Mr. Calder was busy pouring out the second bottle of beer and did not answer for a moment. Then he said, “That fuse on the plastic explosive under the grill was micrometer set. I shouldn’t have needed to turn the gas on. The lightest touch on the switch would have set it off. When I’d immobilized it, I took some photographs. The whole thing had been beautifully concealed. Even if you stooped down you could hardly see a thing. All the wires were taped, and the tapes themselves had been fish-tailed and folded under at the end. Do you remember that sergeant at the demolition school? ‘Five minutes’ extra work, gentlemen. But it may well make the difference between success and failure.’ He always fish-tailed the ends of his tapes. It was when I saw those tapes that I decided to go undercover.”
“I have on my books at this moment,” said Mr. Fortescue to the Prime Minister, “twenty men and four women, any two of whom – they usually work in pairs – I might have allotted to this particular assignment. I selected Calder and Behrens, and I telephoned both of them on Wednesday evening. The line which I used is, I can assure you, secure. They both saw me on Thursday morning. It is true that they came quite openly, and my office in Richmond Terrace might be watched – although, as Commander Elfe will tell you, the Security precautions are such that it would be very difficult for anyone to do so without themselves being observed.”
Commander Elfe, who was the only other person present, nodded and said, “Not impossible, but so difficult that I think we might rule it out.”
“In any event,” went on Mr. Fortescue, “Calder and Behrens were not the only people who saw me that morning. I had routine matters to discuss with at least six other members of my department.”
“So,” said the Prime Minister, “up to that time, no one would have any reason to connect them with this particular job. What did they do next?”
“Behrens visited the Records Department in the new Defence building and went from there to call on Professor Gottlieb. Calder went to Campden Hill to talk to the inspector in charge of the Nicholson inquiry.”
“At either of which points they could have been picked up and followed.”
“Oh, certainly,” said Mr. Fortescue. “Only Mr. Behrens did not reach the Gottlieb flat until a quarter past two, and Mr. Calder went to Campden Hill even later – at three o’clock. The van which was used for the visit to Mr. Calder’s cottage was stolen between one and two. It was clearly stolen for that job, and was abandoned when it had been done.”
The Prime Minister looked at Elfe, who looked at Mr. Fortescue, and said, “What it amounts to is this: the only people who could have known by midday that Behrens was on this job were the staff of the Defence Ministry. If they knew Behrens was on it, they would have assumed Calder was involved as well.”
“I’m afraid that’s right,” said Mr. Fortescue.
“Gentlemen,” said the Prime Minister, “I am not an alarmist. And thirty years in politics has taught me not to jump to conclusions. But if you add that last fact to certain others – the way in which Behrens’ assailant was liberated; the method and execution of the attack on Calder – I’m afraid that a very distasteful possibility emerges.”
“You mean,” said Commander Elfe bluntly, “that Security executive are playing politics.”
In a comfortable bed-sitting room, in that area of bed-sitting rooms which lies between the station and the Rugby football ground at Twickenham, Mr. Behrens poured out a cup of tea for Mr. Calder and said, “How many so far?”
“Seventeen near certainties,” said Mr Calder. “Seventeen cases of public servants driven out. Nine of them have gone to live abroad. Two are in institutions. Six, including Bax, have taken their own lives. And, if those are the ones we know about, you can be certain that the true total is twice or three times as great.”
Mr. Behrens said, “It was the technique which convinced me, much more than all that working out of times and places. It was such an exact reproduction of the interrogation techniques which both sides brought to horrible perfection during the war. If you wanted to break a man down, what did you do? First you made him uncomfortable. It was far more demoralizing for a man to be cold, or filthy, or sleepless, or thirsty than actually to be hurt. Discomfort weakens. Torture builds up a resistance. The Russians discovered that long ago. The interrogator’s second weapon was to find something – it didn’t matter what – but something which his victim was ashamed of. Some weakness, some slip. If he harped on it skillfully he could take the man to pieces.”
Mr. Calder stirred his tea, and looked round the comfortable, lower-middle-class sitting room. Mrs. Palfrey’s grandfather and grandmother stared back at him from fading brown oleographs over the mantelpiece. He found reassurance in their Victorian rigidity. He said, “Public servants are sitting ducks. They loathe fuss. They eschew scandal. And they can’t run away. That’s the point. They’re nailed to their jobs. Take a man like Nicholson. He had to be within reach of Westminster and Whitehall. The only way to go out was to go right out. I wonder what they had on him. And how many times he paid up.”
The arrival of Mrs. Palfrey, with a kettle of hot water and the evening paper, saved Mr. Behrens from having to reply. He found an item at the foot of the front page which seemed to interest him. He read it out: “A party of birdwatchers on the Cooling Marshes yesterday discovered, in one of the saltwater dikes, the body of a man. He has not yet been identified. The following description has been issued. Age, about forty-five. Height, five foot six. Stoutly built. A marked malformation of the upper lip.”
“Do we know him?” said Mr. Calder.
“My acquaintance with him,” said Mr. Behrens, “was limited to poking him with my umbrella. I cannot regard him as a great loss.”
“Quick work, all the same,” said Mr. Calder. “They don’t believe in leaving loose ends about, do they? I wonder what they’ll do next . . .”
Richard Redmayne and Paula Gottlieb sitting on the seat in Green Park made a handsome couple. His conventional dress could not conceal a certain long-limbed, coordinated strength, the product of a school which was unfashionable enough to think athletic prowess important; the girl, dark, lively and very young.
She said, “Have you heard from Mr. Nicholson?”
“He’s arrived in Canada,” said Richard. “I had a short letter. He and his sister have got a flat in Toronto. He says they’re settling down very happily.”
“‘We that had loved him so, followed him, honoured him, lived in his mild and magnificent eye, learned his great language, caught his clear accents, made him our pattern to live and to die.’”
“That’s poetry,” said Richard suspiciously.
“Robert Browning, The Lost Leader. You remember? ‘Just for a handful of silver he left us.’”
“It wasn’t money in his case,” said Richard. “It was fear. How’s your father?”
This change of subject did not appear to surprise Paula. She had reached a stage of intimacy with Richard when such sudden jumps were part of the fun. She said, “If only he’d make up his mind. It’s the uncertainty which is so horrible. If he’d only tell me – tell someone – what it’s all about. He just sits at home. He hardly goes out at all. I had a job to persuade him to go out this morning and get his hair cut.”
“That’s two o’clock striking now,” said Richard. “I’ve got to get back. But I’ll walk home with you first.”
As soon as Paula opened the door of the flat, she knew something wa
s wrong.
“What’s up?” said Richard.
“Where’s Fritz?” There was panic in the girl’s voice. “We left him to guard the house . . . he always runs out to meet me.”
Through the open door of the drawing room they could glimpse the chaos within. Overturned chairs, broken glass, something seeping under the floor and staining the hall carpet.
Richard said urgently, “Don’t go in there – stop.” But he found himself unable to hold her. She burst past him and threw herself into the room. As he grabbed the telephone, he heard her give a single choked scream.
When the police and her father arrived together five minutes later, she was still on her knees, sobbing uncontrollably, with a brown and black head cradled on her lap . . .
In the hot blacked-out room, half laboratory, half office, two men pored over the microfilm reader. “It’s here if it’s anywhere,” said Sand-Douglas. “November 2nd, 1940. That was the day he arrived. The main interrogation would have started the day after. We usually gave them a night’s rest . . .”
Old Mr. Happold, as thin and as indestructible as dried seaweed, fed a second roll of microfilm into the reader and adjusted the reading glass. He was unaffected by the heat and closeness of the room. “This looks like the one,” he said. “Do you know exactly what it is we’re looking for?”
“We’re looking for a name,” said Sand-Douglas. “A name out of the past. And I do believe” – he wiped a hand across to clear the sweat out of his eyes – “yes, that’s it. I’ll have to use your telephone. I think we’ll risk an open line this time.”
Professor Gottlieb looked round the table. There were four men there. Commander Elfe of the Special Branch he knew; and he had met Mr. Fortescue once, and was aware that he was connected with Security. The other two were a thickset man whom they called Mr. Calder, and Mr. Behrens.
“I don’t think,” said the professor, “that they could do anything more horrible than they did this morning. It was a mistake. Since there is nothing worse they can do, I have no motive not to speak. When I came to this country in 1940, I brought with me a secret of which I was bitterly ashamed. I am not a man of action. I could never have arranged my own escape from Prague. I should not have known how to start. It was arranged for me. When I told my story to your interrogators, I said that it was arranged by the Czech underground. That was a lie. It was arranged by the Germans. They bartered my escape with me for some information I was able to give them. I didn’t know why they wanted it – that’s no excuse. It led to the execution of two of my colleagues in Prague University. I thought, for a long time, the secret had died with them. I still have no idea how anyone could have found out.”
“The man who interrogated you,” said Mr. Fortescue, “also dealt with other compatriots of yours. He heard a rumor from them, and was able to verify it after the war from German sources. But please go on.”
“There is no more. Seven years ago, when I began to be well known here, and well paid – the blackmail started. For seven years I have paid away about a third of all my income. Lately the demands were increased. I dug in my toes. Different forms of pressure were applied. I could do nothing to stop them. I was afraid that if I complained the whole truth would come out. I see now that I have been stupid. I should have spoken at once. But it is difficult to see these things when you are on your own.”
“Have you any idea at all who the blackmailers were?” asked Commander Elfe.
“None at all. I never saw them, or spoke to them except on the telephone. I drew the money every month in notes and sent it to what I imagine was an accommodation address.” He paused, and looked round the table at the four men. Mr. Calder and Mr. Behrens were looking impassive. The burly Commander Elfe had a scowl on his face. Mr. Fortescue was looking out of the window. He had a cold and clinical glint in his eye. It reminded Professor Gottlieb of a surgeon he had once watched, weighing up the chances of a delicate and critical operation. “And that’s really all I can tell you,” he said. “Do you think there is any chance of catching these men?”
Mr. Fortescue swiveled his head round so that he was looking directly at the professor. He said, “Oh, yes. We have found out who these men are, and where they operate from. It would be comparatively simple to render them harmless. But if we are actually to catch and convict them, we shall need a lot of luck and your help . . .”
“I am glad that my worst suspicions were wrong,” said the Prime Minister, “and I apologize for them.” He had invited Ian Maver, the head of DI5, to dinner and they were sitting together over their brandy.
“Not so far wrong,” said Maver. The apology and the brandy were working on him. “Most of them are either ex-MI5 or ex-policemen. The leader is a man called Cotter. I knew him quite well. A guardsman. A very able officer, an excellent linguist and a good organizer. A bit ruthless for peacetime operations. He left us in the mid-fifties. I think he was disappointed over promotion. Then he set up this private inquiry organization, Cotter’s Detectives. We’ve been using him quite a bit lately ourselves. Guarding VIPs and that sort of thing.”
“And it was his men who were put in charge of Nicholson?”
“That wasn’t very clever,” said Maver, “but if they keep us short of policemen it’s bound to happen. Businesses use private gunmen to look after their payrolls now. Private watchmen patrol building estates. Private guards for VIPs? It was a logical step.”
“How did you find out about him?”
“We went right back to the record of Gottlieb’s first interrogation. Cotter was the man who conducted it. We got a cross-reference when we found out that Cotter and one of his men, Lawrie, had been the two ‘referees’ given by Smythe when he got his job in our Records Department. That was a bad slip, and it was entirely my fault.”
The Prime Minister was aware that the head of DI5 was offering him his resignation if he chose to take it. He rejected the offering. His opinion of Ian Maver had changed in the course of the evening.
He said, “Everyone’s allowed one mistake. Even in politics. What are you doing about Smythe?”
“For the moment, we’re leaving him where he is. He happens to form rather a useful channel of communication. One of his jobs is to monitor the Records room. If we want to get a piece of information across to Cotter, without appearing to do so, all that’s necessary is a little calculated indiscretion between two of our men when searching the files.”
“Do I gather from that,” said the Prime Minister, “that some definite action is contemplated?”
“Mr. Fortescue has the matter in hand,” said Maver.
“It’s not going to be at all easy,” said Mr. Fortescue, “but we have three points in our favor.” He ticked them off with one finger of his right hand.
“First, they have no reason at all to think that we suspect them. And of course they must continue in this happy state of ignorance. Secondly, we can, if we are careful, leak information to them through Smythe. Third, and most important, I think they are bound to react to Professor Gottlieb. Like all bullies, if one of their victims rebels and they do nothing about it, other victims will follow suit. I am arranging for Professor Gottlieb to show fight.”
“They might go for his daughter,” said Elfe.
“I had thought of that myself,” said Mr. Fortescue, and Elfe looked up sharply.
“Do I understand that you’re going to use the girl as bait?”
“It seems to me the simplest of a number of possible methods,” said Mr. Fortescue. “We’ll keep the professor in town, and put such a ring fence of guards round him that they can’t touch him. As a preliminary precaution, the girl will be sent into the country. Not too far. I had in mind the Thetford area in Norfolk. The army used it as a battle school during the war, and parts of it are still quite deserted.”
“And you’re going to let them know she’s there?”
“It will come to their ears in about a week’s time.”
“I don’t like it,” said Elfe. “It’s
too risky.”
“Any plan will be risky,” said Mr. Fortescue. “This plan will, I think have less risk than most. I always prefer to play a match on ground of my own choosing.”
“Who are you going to send with her? Calder or Behrens?”
“If I sent either of them, it would be stupid of Cotter to go near her and Cotter is not a stupid man. No. I had in mind that Nicholson’s secretary, young Redmayne, would be the man for the job. They know each other and are, I believe, good friends. They’ll be suitably chaperoned, of course.”
Harwood Farm lay at the end of a mile of lane. It was a pleasant, rambling, yellow-brick building with two vast barns. It had been empty for some months, since the last tenantfarmer had moved out. Its fields were now farmed by a man who came over occasionally from Tunstock.
One of the pleasantest features of their stay, thought Richard Redmayne, had been the efforts they had made to bring the place back to life. For a fortnight he and Paula and the dour Mrs. Mason had washed and scrubbed and scoured and sandpapered and painted. Paula had revealed several unexpected skills. First she had dismantled and cleaned the engine and dynamo which supplied them with electricity. Then, with the aid of a carload of technical stores from Norwich, she had stepped up the output, so that bulbs which had previously shone dimly now glowed as brightly as though they were on mains.
“My father taught me not to be afraid of electricity,” she said. “It’s just like water. You see water coming out of a tap. A nice steady flow. Halve the outlet, and you double the power. Like this.” She was holding a length of hosepipe in her hand, swilling down the choked gutters in the yard. As she pinched the end of the hose, a thin jet of water hissed out.
“All right,” said Richard, ducking. “You needn’t demonstrate it. I understand the principle. I didn’t know it applied to electricity, that’s all.”