Agent of the Reich

by Seb Spence

  “I assure you,” he said solemnly, “this is typical of the sort of costume worn by magician’s assistants. It’s practically a uniform for them.”

  “Typical or not, Mr Miller, I’m not wearing it. It’s obscene.”

  Miller looked hurt. “Believe me, Miss Harrison, it is perfectly respectable for a stage costume. It belonged to my wife.”

  “Have you got anything else?”

  “No, this is the only thing I have that would fit you. I have a couple of Ada’s old costumes but she was much smaller than you – you’d never get into them.”

  Grace stared silently at the outfit for a few seconds and then exhaled.

  “All right,” she said reluctantly, “I’ll try it on.”

  “Excellent. If you take the costume down the hall to the bathroom, you can change into it in privacy. Here’s the hosiery and shoes to go with it,” he said, passing her some fishnet tights and a pair of blue, high-heeled shoes that matched the top and headdress.

  Ten minutes later Grace re-appeared in the costume, carrying her own clothes, which she placed in a neat pile on the chair with her coat.

  “You look absolutely stunning, Miss Harrison,” Miller said admiringly. “Give me a twirl.” Grace turned in a circle for him. “Breathtaking,” he declared. “How does the outfit feel?”

  “The shoes are ok, but the top isn’t an exact fit – it’s a bit tight around the bust. “It’ll do though – I can leave the top buttons at the back undone and just fasten it with a couple of safety pins.”

  “Make do and mend, eh? Now, when we get to the theatre it would be helpful if you didn’t mention to them that you are going to be there just for today’s audition – they might not book the act if they thought there was a risk I couldn’t get a replacement for you.”

  “Of course, I won’t mention it. Incidentally, where is the theatre?”

  “It’s not far from here; it’s just off Shaftesbury Avenue – in Great Windmill Street.”

  Grace froze and looked at him. “Which theatre is it?”

  “The Windmill.”

  She took off the headdress immediately. “I’m afraid the deal’s off, Mr Miller. I’m not performing at the Windmill Theatre. I know all about what they do there.”

  “Now, now, Miss Harrison, there’s nothing to be alarmed about. You wouldn’t be involved in any of that. The show has a variety of acts – all perfectly respectable – in between the numbers with the girls. We just do our turn at the audition this morning and leave. You’ll never have to go back to the place. There’ll be no audience leering at you; the only ones watching will be the manager and a few of his staff. This opportunity means a lot to me, Miss Harrison: it could really give my career a boost.”

  “I’m not supporting indecent behaviour, and you shouldn’t be either, Mr Miller.” Grace picked up her clothes from the chair and went out to the bathroom to change. She returned a few minutes later dressed in her own things and with her coat on. Miller was sitting on the edge of the bed, with his elbows on his knees, staring down at the floor, his hip flask clasped between his hands. She remembered finding him in this pose the day she went back to see him at the village hall. He seemed unaware of her return. She held out the hanger with the costume. “Where shall I put this?”

  “Just lay it on the bed,” he said absently without looking at her. “I’ll put it away. Thanks for coming along this morning. It was very good of you. Sorry I’ve wasted your time.”

  Grace laid the outfit carefully on the bed and then went and stood before him. “Is this your answer to every setback, Mr Miller?” she said, removing the flask from between his hands.

  He looked up at her, mildly surprised. “No, no, Miss Harrison, it’s purely for medicinal purposes, purely medicinal.”

  As she set the flask down on the bedside cabinet, she noticed that standing on the surface was a silver-framed photograph of a rather attractive, young, dark-haired woman. She guessed it was his late wife. The photograph held her attention for several seconds, and she stood gazing down at it, absorbed in thought. When she was changing in the bathroom, she had planned to abandon Miller and return straight home, but seeing him in this forlorn state made her reconsider. The audition wouldn’t take long and, after all, she reflected, what harm would it do? If going through with it meant that Miller would gain some self-respect, it was worth doing, she decided.

  Grace took off her coat again, laid it on the bed and turned to face him. “If we’re going to this audition, we’d better start practicing some tricks – time is wearing on.”

  Miller looked up at her uncomprehendingly; several seconds elapsed before it dawned on him that she was going to stay. He snapped out of his torpor at once and stood up. “Illusions, please, Miss Harrison, illusions – tricks are what you win at cards,” he said grandly, beaming at her.

  #

  Grace was hoping she might have a private room to change in at the theatre, but she was disappointed. Instead, a stout bespectacled woman from the ‘front of house’ staff took her down to the basement dressing room used by the girls in the show. She led Grace in and just left her there with no introduction.

  Grace stood at the door, looking around the room: it was bright from the glare of the bulbs surrounding the dressing table mirrors, and full of young women in their underwear, though a few were wearing dressing gowns. It was only 11.30am but many of the dancers were already there, some preparing for the first of the matinee performances, while others were busy mending or altering costumes; some just seemed to be sitting around chatting and drinking tea. The room was filled with the noise of their conversation and laughter. It seemed to be organised chaos.

  A girl with blonde ringlets who was sitting at a dressing table near the door smiled at her. “Come on in, luv,” she said, “we won’t bite yer! Are you auditioning as one of the dancers?”

  “No, no,” Grace corrected her hastily, “I’m in a magic act – I’m Professor Prospero’s assistant.”

  “Professor Prospero, eh? Sorry, never ‘eard of ‘im.” The girl looked Grace up and down. “It’s a pity you’re not trying out as a dancer: you’d make a nice addition to the line up.”

  Grace noticed that on the floor along the far wall there were several mattresses laid out; the bedding on them was unmade from the previous night and on one there was a girl still sleeping. The blonde followed the direction of Grace’s gaze. “Don’t mind ‘er. She was at a party at the Dorchester – it only finished at four this morning. We have beds in the dressing room because some of the girls prefer to sleep here overnight rather than risk going home in the air raids. It makes getting to work easier as well!” she laughed. “You’d better hurry up and get ready. Mr van Damm doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

  When Grace mentioned that this was her first performance, the blonde girl and two of the others offered to help her get ready. They assisted her into her costume, pinning it at the back so that it was not too tight. Grace never wore make up, but the girls said it was essential for the stage. They let her use theirs, and the blonde girl applied it for her.

  “How old are you?” she asked as she started to rub foundation cream onto Grace’s cheeks.

  “Twenty one.”

  “Lucky! You won’t need your parents permission to work here. Mr van Damm is very fussy about things like that – insists on getting the parents’ blessing if the girls are underage. I wanted to come here when I was sixteen, but me Mum wouldn’t let me. That didn’t stop me though – I got a job in the chorus line at the Silver Masque Club in Mayfair. They’re not so fussy there, but of course it’s not as nice as the Windmill.” The girl went on to give an enthusiastic account of her life and work at the theatre: the parties she attended, the famous patrons she met, the admirers, the presents ... It was clearly a job she enjoyed.

  “There yer are,” she said finally, putting the finishing touches to Grace’s lipstick, “all done. Now stand up. You look fantastic! Go out there and knock ‘em flat.”

  G
race met up with Miller in the wings. He was watching one of the other auditioning acts – a comedy duo – go through their routine. When she arrived at his side, he turned away from the stage and looked her over. She could tell by his expression that he was pleased with her appearance. “You look very ... professional, Miss Harrison, very professional,” he whispered, smiling at her.

  From where she was standing, she could see part of the auditorium beyond the stage and was aware of half a dozen dimly lit faces in the audience.

  “Ma Henderson’s out there, you know. And van Damm, of course,” Miller informed her.

  “Who?”

  “The proprietrix and her manager.”

  They were up next and Grace was starting to experience a little stage fright. There were quite a few people milling about in the wings – electricians, scene painters, some of the performers; and what with the people in the audience as well, and the bright lights and the atmosphere, she began to feel anxious. It was quite different from her performance at the village hall in Bramlington. Miller noticed her biting her bottom lip nervously. He reached down and gave her hand a squeeze. “Touch of the butterflies? Don’t worry, you’ll be fine.”

  And he was right. The act went more or less without incident. It was all over in less than ten minutes. Grace made a couple of minor mistakes, but Miller managed to cover for her, so it was unlikely anyone in the audience would have noticed them. At the end, a man’s voice called out from the dark recesses at the back of the auditorium: “Thank you Mr Miller. We’ll let you know.”

  Grace returned to the dressing room. The blonde-haired girl was gone, but with the help of one of the others, she removed her makeup and then changed back into her own clothes. As she left the dressing room, she said goodbye to the girls, who in turn wished her luck.

  Standing in the passageway outside was a young man with dark, Brylcreemed hair. He wore a fair-isle vest over his shirt and carried a clipboard. He seemed to be waiting for her. “Miss Harrison, isn’t it?” he enquired. “I’m Mr van Damm’s assistant. He asked me to pop down and have a word with you about the act.” He was well spoken but had an unctuous manner. “We were fairly impressed with the routine: Mr Miller is a very professional performer and there are some clever tricks in the turn. But the fact is, we feel that his material is probably not quite right for our show. We can’t take him on. You, on the other hand, would fit in very well. If I may say so, you looked fabulous in your costume. Have you done any dancing on stage?”

  “No.”

  “Well, that’s not necessarily a problem – we could train you up to do a few routines. And, let’s face it,” he smirked, “in our shows a more important accomplishment is to be able to keep very still.”

  “I’m not interested,” Grace replied icily.

  He sensed the disapproval in her tone. “You surely don’t object to our tableaux vivants – women as nature intended, showing off their beauty? It’s nothing worse than you would see in an art gallery – the ‘Venus of Urbino’, say, or ‘La Grande Odalisque’.”

  “Naked women on stage is not art, its lewdness. Goodbye.” With that she walked away, leaving him shaking his head in disbelief that she could fail to see the logic in his argument.

  #

  Miller was waiting outside the stage door for her. “I think that went rather well,” he said, smiling. “What say we celebrate? I know a nice little pub near here.”

  “No, thank you, Mr Miller, I have to be getting back home now – my father is expecting me.” Grace was in no mood for celebrating: the exchange with van Damm’s assistant had left her angry.

  As they walked the short distance down to Piccadilly Circus, Miller started to recount an anecdote from his experiences playing in the West End. He was in a euphoric mood. She decided not to remind him about the fee he had promised her and which seemed to have slipped his mind. With a brief goodbye, Grace left him at the corner of Regent Street and headed off quickly for Victoria Station. She did not have the heart to tell him there was no chance he would get the engagement.

  6.

  Saturday, 14th September, 1940: Stanmore

  Since receiving the news of GK’s death, Barton had been occupied with the arrangements for the funeral, which had been held the previous day, Friday. However, he had also found time to start his enquiries into the circumstances of GK’s demise. He had contacted the Birmingham police to find out as much as he could about how Kemp had died. He learnt that the building where his body had been discovered was in the north west part of the city. It was not an industrial district and had not been heavily bombed on the night of the big raid: in fact, only three properties in the area had been hit. A detective he spoke to said it looked as if a bomber might have overshot its target, or perhaps was jettisoning the remainder of its payload before returning home.

  The building where GK was found was a disused brewery that had been standing empty for years. The police theory was that GK had been in the area when the raid started and had broken into the building to take shelter in its cellars; the building had then been hit by one or more incendiary bombs, and GK was overcome by smoke, or else he became trapped in the cellar and died in the fire.

  What troubled Barton about this theory was that the brewery was nowhere near either of the two factories GK was supposed to be visiting. It was, however, in the part of the city nearest to Hednesford, the town GK had phoned from when he made his call to Supervisor Morrison. Barton asked the police if the fire might have been started deliberately, but they said no – the remains of a German incendiary device had been found in the rubble. It seemed to Barton there was nothing further he could do; GK was dead and no amount of sleuthing would bring him back. Whether he was a victim of the bombing or had been murdered was a mystery that, it seemed, would never be solved.

  After coming off the phone to the Birmingham police, Barton had rung Colonel Minton to let him know about GK. Minton did not seem very surprised by the news. He passed on his condolences and then requested they meet up again, but it had to be somewhere private, he said, somewhere where they would not be disturbed. Barton did not really see the point of another meeting – there was nothing else he could do to help track down this spy ring – but he agreed to it.

  Bronx was now doing late shifts, and with GK gone, Barton was alone in the billet in the evenings, so it was as good a place as any for a confidential meeting. He suggested that Minton should just come out to Stanmore again and proposed Saturday evening after 8pm. Barton knew he would definitely be in at that time, unless his team were to be called out to some balloon-related emergency.

  #

  Standing at the living room window, Barton watched for the arrival of his visitor and saw the Colonel draw up in his Humber just before 8pm. Minton was driving it himself this time and was alone.

  Barton let him in and led him into the dining room. “It’s safe to talk in here. There’s no one else in the house.”

  Minton opened the briefcase he was carrying and took out a bottle of Scotch, putting it on the dining table. “I’ve been saving this up for a special occasion – I think tonight’s as good as any. We need to have a long chat. Have you got any glasses?”

  Barton wondered what there was to talk about. He went into the kitchen and returned with two mugs. “Sorry, this is the best I can do. Bronx broke the last of the glasses a couple of days ago when he was doing the dishes.”

  Minton poured a large measure into each mug and, taking his, sat down in an armchair. “Are you a whisky drinker, Barton?”

  Barton shrugged. “I’ll drink pretty much anything, but I suppose I’m more of a beer man.”

  Minton swirled the liquid round in his mug and lifted it to his nose. He sniffed it approvingly. “This is a single malt from Skye. It’s made with spring water from the hills – you can smell the peat the water flowed through.”

  Barton took a sip. It was smooth and had a slightly sweet taste. “Very pleasant,” he said.

  Minton took a drink himself and
savoured it with his eyes closed for a few seconds. Opening them, he focussed on Barton. “Tell me, Pilot Officer, what exactly do you do?”

  Barton paused before answering – he felt he had to be circumspect in what he said about his work, even though Minton was a colonel in the intelligence service.

  Minton sensed his hesitancy. “It’s alright, you don’t have to go into any detail – just give me a general idea.”

  “I’m attached to a section at Balloon Command that is developing improved mooring technology for barrage balloons. Part of my work involves research into technical aspects of balloon tethering, part involves going out into the field to recover balloons that have broken loose. We have to identify the cause of the mooring failure and suggest countermeasures.”

  “Do you enjoy your work?”

  Barton was not in the mood for small talk but thought he had better humour the Colonel. “The engineering part is interesting – solving some of the technical problems that come up can be challenging. I studied aeronautics at university and always had an interest in airship design, so I suppose this aspect is pretty close to my ideal job. Can’t say I enjoy chasing the damn things round the countryside, though.”

  “You’re probably wondering why I’m asking. The fact is, I need someone to assist me, someone I can trust, and I think you could be the one.”

  “But you hardly know me. And anyway, I’ve no experience of intelligence work.”

  “I know that you’re keen to see justice done for your friend Kemp, and that means we have a common interest. As far as the intelligence work is concerned, you’ll be acting on my instructions – I’ll give you all the guidance you need.”

  “But what about my responsibilities at Balloon Command? I can’t just abandon them.”

  “You don’t have to. In fact, I’d like you to continue with your work there – it will make a good cover for you. I can arrange for you to be relieved of your balloon-chasing activities, so you’d be carrying out R&D full time. On occasion, I will call you away to undertake certain tasks for me, but I can fix things so that your superiors don’t suspect anything. We can appoint you as a technical advisor at the Air Ministry and summon you ostensibly to Whitehall when we need you.”