Avenging Steel 4: The Tree of Liberty

by Hall, Ian

  When they nodded, the man bent to the still carousing German, and smashed him on the cheek. One punch and out for the count. I looked on shocked, my head not entirely clear.

  “What the heck…?”

  “A necessary roughness,” I heard a familiar woman’s voice behind me.

  “Lilith,” I said, turning.

  “You’ll be the witness,” she grinned, motioning to the big chap to haul Möller upwards to allow Cathy to escape from under him. “Looks like a jealous boyfriend arrived home unexpectedly.”

  “What do we do with him now?”

  “We get him dressed again and we drive him home.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t know where he lives!”

  Lilith waved Möller’s ID card. “It’s okay, we do.” She looked at the other papers he carried, nodded, then slipped them in her pockets. She caught me looking on. “Our forgers will have a field-day with this lot.”

  Then to my shock and surprise, Alice walked in, giving me a terrible look. I could imagine my face smothered in lipstick like Möller’s. “Honey, I…”

  Then she broke into a laugh, and despite the naked Nazi on the bed, Cathy getting back into her clothes, and Marie, the girl I’d been kissing, standing in front of my new wife, we all burst into laughter with her.

  When Lilith found Möller’s money, she counted it out, and split it between us.

  As an added bonus to the deal I got fifteen quid; three weeks wages for getting a German drunk.

  The Morning After

  Alice and I got dropped at the top of Morningside Hill, and ambled down to the apartment arm in arm. I still felt a little unsteady on my feet, and was finding it difficult to resist another beer at the Golf Tavern. In fact, every boozer we passed seemed to be calling to me, promising some form of fluffy oblivion.

  Once we’d gotten home, Alice put the kettle on for everyone, and I got a grilling from mum about the evils of the demon drink. Frances came in to eary-wig my dressing down.

  It was only then that I remembered my winnings and turned my pockets out.

  “Good grief!” Mum exclaimed, picking the notes up, counting them carefully. “There’s over a hundred and twenty pounds here!”

  “I got lucky on the horses.”

  “Lucky?” Frances sat at the end of the table, her mouth wide open. “That’s a fortune!”

  “You’ll catch flies,” I said, then leaned over to her. “When’s your birthday?”

  “Two weeks. You know that.”

  “How do you fancy a new gramophone?”

  “WHAT?”

  And I went from a poor victim under his mother’s cosh to a favorite brother in seconds.

  Next day, at German HQ, Möller was absent. I almost laughed at his replacement’s efforts to even understand the stories, never mind correct them.

  On Friday, he was still a no-show.

  I never expected Möller to be waiting outside the building, civilian clothes, jacket lapels pulled to his throat, fedora hat pulled down over his eyes. “I need to talk.” His eyes were slits, his face a deathly shade of grey.

  “Here? On the street?” I asked. Möller shook his head, and walked away towards town, motioning me to follow. I caught up quickly. For all his attempts to hide his identity, his actions were making him stand out like a sore thumb. “Relax, man, you’re looking guilty of something!”

  “I am guilty!” he snapped, his voice coming through clenched teeth. “I haff lost my papers, money, wallet every-sing.”

  We walked along the Lauriston Place, then I pulled him across into the University. “We’ll be quieter in here. All the bars will be busy; it’s lunchtime.”

  The University Union Bar was suitably deserted, and I pointed him to a dark corner. “Two pints of mild,” I held up a Churchill ‘Victory’ sign, and crossed to the bar, heedless of Möller’s protests of his newly-enforced abstinence.

  When I crossed to the corner, he’d relaxed slightly. I pushed the pint into his hand. “Drink!”

  “But…”

  I shook my head. “I’m not listening to a word until you drink it down. You look like shite.”

  Nodding, he reluctantly raised the ale to his lips. I’ll give him his due, once started, he drank like a pro, consuming the brown ale in record time.

  “My life is in ruins.” Surprisingly he waved his empty glass in the air, the gesture seen by the barmaid. “My papers are gone, my money, wallet. I also have a sore jaw.” He rubbed his cheek gingerly. I noticed bruising for the first time, up near the bottom of his eye.

  “It was an adventure.” I pulled on my beer to hide my mirth.

  “You?”

  “Ah,” My well-practiced cover story tumbled easily from my lips. “I wasn’t the one who was bedding the big brute’s girlfriend. I got off lightly, although they did take most of my winnings.”

  “Most?”

  “I had stuffed some of it in my sock, I know British crowds, you see.”

  “Ach, you are more fortunate than me.”

  I walked to the bar to grab and pay for his waiting beer. Obviously the barmaid didn’t do table service. Charlie, the old barman before he upped and joined up, would have brought it over happily.

  “What do I do?” Although he looked dejected, it didn’t stop him making decent headways into his second pint. “I am technically absent without leave. I could be up on a charge.”

  “Ah,” I hadn’t considered that. He had more hoops to jump because of his position, his rank. “You go back to your digs, get dressed, and walk in to work. You apologize to your superior officer, blame a bad cold, and suck up your pride.”

  “My papers?”

  “Do you need them to get past the guards at the gate?”

  He shook his head.

  “Then wait until the weekend and report them missing, lost, you can’t find them. Christ, you maybe German, but you’re human, not infallible.”

  “It cannot be so simple.”

  “It is.” I slapped my empty glass on the table. “Want another?”

  His head shake was stiffer this time. “No. Your plan is simple, James Baird. It may work.”

  He stood, and I could see his body begin a salute, then he stopped himself, and offered his hand. “You are a good friend, James Baird of Edinburgh.”

  If only he knew.

  It turned out to a time of surprise meetings. As soon as Möller had gone, Marie from the racecourse walked in, making directly for the bar. She pointed at me, then ordered drinks. I sat still, again the deer-in-the-headlights feeling stiffening any reaction I would have had. Damn, my hands had wandered all over her body; I felt guilt just thinking about it.

  “Hello James.” She approached and sat opposite me, her back to both the bar and the door.

  “What happens if Möller comes back?” I glanced at the entrance.

  “He’s gone, don’t worry.” She supped her beer like a man, wiping the foam from her mouth with her coat sleeve. “That was some performance you put on the other day.”

  “Aye, not as big as yours, well Carol actually.”

  “Yeah, she’s quite a girl. Her man is in Tunisia.” Her expression hardened. “Well, that’s where he’s buried.”

  Ah, I instantly had a notion of why she did what she did. I had been spared the misfortune of losing someone close, and could only vainly grasp at what that could make a person do.

  “We need you to keep being a friend to Herr Möller. Is that okay with you?”

  I nodded. “I can do that. What have you got in line for him?”

  “Oh maybe nothing for a few days, months, years, but he’ll be needed at some time or other. Then we pounce. Has he mentioned Wednesday afternoon?”

  “Only the loss of his papers, his cash.”

  “Not the photos?”

  “No, he never mentioned it.”

  “Okay, we’ve still got that card to play then.” She sipped her beer again and stood. “Maybe we’ll meet again, huh?” The Vera Lynn song rushed into my
head, and I nodded meekly, still feeling guilty. “Maybe I’ll let you feel me up again.”

  “I did not…” Damn those women and their power over men. She waltzed away, swinging her arse far more than she needed to.

  And damned if I didn’t watch it until it was out of sight.

  Saturday morning was Frances’s.

  On North Bridge, just south of The Scotsman offices, stood the imposing frontage of The Scottish Drapery Corporation. Fancy name, yes, but it was known to folks in town as Patrick Thomsons, or PT’s

  With Jenners known to be expensive, just for expensive’s sake, PT’s had the same selection at a far lower price. Of course, it didn’t have the Princes Street view onto Edinburgh Castle, but I didn’t care.

  Neither, it seemed, did Frances. She was bouncing around like a rubber ball. Only when we stood at the actual desk in the Electric Department, did she actually calm down. Her eyes were seriously bobbling out of her head. “How much can I spend?” she asked, looking at the array of machines behind the low glass cabinet.

  “I’ll decide when I’ve heard from the man.”

  At that, an assistant appeared; suit, bow tie, smile. “How can I help you sir?”

  “Well, we want a gramophone, but we’re not sure what our money can buy.”

  “Ah,” he preened himself, obviously nervous at his next question. “Do we have any certain limit, sir?”

  “No, but I’m not getting fleeced either.” I looked at the names, some known to me, Decca, RCA Victor, some foreign and strange. “Start talking.”

  We moved away from the wind ups very quickly, and when he lifted the smaller suitcase version onto the counter, I was impressed by its size. “This is one of the latest from Decca, made in Britain, powered from mains electricity, and not acoustic sound either; it’s fully electric, with a state-of-the-art speaker. It will play the old acoustically recorded recordings, but also the newer electrical recordings becoming more popular.”

  I had already seen the price tag of pennies off fifteen pounds. “What’s up from here?” Out of the corner of my eye I saw Frances jump in excitement.

  “Ah, we have a small step in price, but a difference in technology.” He moved the Decca to the side and replaced it with a larger wooden model, an RCA Victor. This definitely was not a suitcase model, more a piece of furniture on its own. “Made in America, this will take up to five records, and allow you to listen to them in order, one after the other.”

  Frances was almost salivating.

  “Why would you want to do that?” I asked.

  “Dummy,” Frances shook her head. “If I’m listening to Beethoven, I have to change the record at every movement; every couple of minutes. This way I can lie back and listen to a whole symphony.”

  “Ah,”

  “Not only that,” the salesman continued. “This will also play the new vinyl records. They’re not widely available yet, but they’re coming. It will change the way we listen to music.”

  I wanted to say; ‘At twenty nicker it bloody should do’.

  But I held my tongue.

  In the end, of course, we went for the record changing RCA Victor model. I was all for the Decca, British made one, but Frances seemed to love the Made in USA plate on the front.

  I was the pack horse.

  We went for lunch high up on the top floor of the store, then took a tram home, the gramophone box sitting on the seat beside Frances, her hand resting on the top. She looked out the window as if she’d just been promoted to Princess. The only thing missing was her waving to the peons outside.

  Oh… one thing the salesman forgot to tell us… the new machine was far louder than the old one. We found that out pretty damn soon. That’s progress for you.

  On Sunday, we left the music-rapt teenager to her new toy, and I drove mum and Alice to the seaside. It was only Gullane, but it sure did the trick for mum. We grabbed pies in Musselburgh, then called into Lucas Ice Cream Parlor; it was the wrong order to eat a dinner, dessert first, but for once mum didn’t seem to mind.

  Gullane hadn’t changed since dad had took us there, mum walked around in her own bubble for most of the afternoon, probably remembering the same day. She window-shopped until she came to a souvenir shop, where she stood for ages.

  “What’s up, Mum?” I asked putting my arm around her shoulders. It was only then that I noticed she was sobbing lightly. “Mum?”

  “It’s the same one your Dad bought.” She pointed out a tea-towel, with scenes of the village printed on it. “We left it on the beach by mistake.”

  It was only two bob, so I walked in, bought it, and returned to her. I don’t think she’s ever hugged me tighter. “I’m sorry, Mum, maybe we shouldn’t have come here.”

  “No!” she rallied against her tears. “This is a happy time. Your Dad’s here with me, I can feel it.” I found the street called Sandy Loan, and drove as far as I could. Then we walked down the sandy pathway to the pristine beach.

  The day was complete when we all paddled in the water, mum too; I’d never seen her skirt pulled quite so high. She got in over her knees until a wave hit her, sending its water squirting up into her nether regions. The startled look on her face made us all laugh.

  As the women lay on the beach, I watched out to sea, over to Fife, and back up the Forth Estuary. I couldn’t see a single manifestation of the war in the whole vista. It made me wonder of the remoteness of the German’s hold in Europe. I betted that the western coast was more attended than us on the east.

  All in all, we had a great day, and not even a routine road block near Musselburgh on the way home could dampen our spirits.

  Monday morning always comes too quickly. I think it’s God’s revenge against those that drink; a hangover on Monday always seemed like a double whammy. Thanks to Alice pulling me towards the bedroom when I suggested a nightcap in the Golf Tavern, I’d been sober the night before; I only had to deal with the Monday morning part.

  Operation Whatever-It’s-Called

  “You’ve been inside the radio Station, haven’t you? Heartland Radio?” Ivanhoe’s question didn’t faze me; I’d been alerted to a dark mood by his sullen expression. We were walking down Cockburn Street, supposedly browsing the windows of the second-hand stores.

  “Aye, a few months back,”

  “It’s got two street windows, but they’re painted on the inside. If we got two grenades through the windows, how much damage would they do to the operational parts?” I recalled the foyer, the two seated areas to either side of the door. I couldn’t remember any light coming from outside, and told Ivanhoe as much. “So there may be wood behind the glass?”

  “Aye, but there’s a fair bit of building between the front windows and the back where the men play the records.”

  “Okay, you’re in.” Ivanhoe looked up and down the street, and by his expression I knew he was leaving. “22 Haddington Place, tonight at seven. The landing door will be open. It’s apartment 2-1. You’ll meet strangers, so there’s no names, no code names, no unit designation.”

  And off he went, a whole bottle of soda, shaken up, just about to pop his cork.

  Möller was in place at noon, sitting behind the desk, oblivious to the bottle of worms that was waiting to drop on him. He behaved business-like, and never mentioned Musselburgh Races once.

  That evening, seeing little sense in going home, only to up-sticks again and travel back the same way I’d come, I worked late at the office. At six thirty I ‘clocked-out’ and walked down Leith Walk.

  The grand avenue from Princes Street’s East-End down to Duke Street was actually a collection of short streets, collectively called Leith Walk. Haddington Place was near the top, and I knew as I approached, on the western, left, side that I was looking for an address almost opposite the radio Station.

  Arriving at six fifty-seven I found the large blue door unlocked, the number clearly painted above. Inside was a long corridor, then a rise of steps taking us up past the shops on either side. A dark zig-za
g staircase climbed me further. Again, the door to flat 2-1 was open, so I walked cautiously inside. “Hello?”

  “Through here,” Ivanhoe’s voice. The apartment was furnished, but dark, not a light on in the place. Guided by the quiet conversation I soon found myself in the front room. Ivanhoe stood with a familiar female figure, and a man I’d never seen before. He wore full length dark work overalls. Drapes were pulled over tall windows, but we could see through them. Due to the lack of light in the room, I’m quite certain that no one could see us. “Ah, come on in. Dave, this is Jim.” I shook his hand and gave him a cursory glance; I guessed Dave would be about thirty. “And, of course, Jim, you already know Lil.”

  I nodded to Lilith, and made the supposition that Dave was from a third organization.

  Ivanhoe took the lead. “Welcome to our first joint operation in Edinburgh. Hopefully sometime soon we’ll blow Heartland Radio to pieces.”

  It was obvious I was there as the guy-who’d-been-inside, and when we retired to the back room, and put a map on the kitchen table, I could see where the intelligence had fallen short. There was plenty information on the stuff outside, the alleyways at the back, but precious little inside. I filled them in somewhat, but by the time my memory had been exhausted, we were still left with a large area of white paper near the rear of the floor-plan.

  “I know someone who left the tour.” I said, looking at Lil(ith). “She got some time away from the goons; I’d say she’d remember more than me.”

  Lilith folded the map carefully. “Then we take the plan to her, and get her to fill in the blanks.” Everyone nodded.

  Ivanhoe finished the meeting. “We meet back here tomorrow, same time.”

  In three or four minute intervals we left individually, me taking the map.

  Back at our apartment, Alice added a few short corridors, and confirmed my positioning of the two sound-proofed record-playing booths, but we still had a blank space.

  “We have to go back in.” she said, her mischievous grin infectious in the extreme.

  “Ivanhoe would never allow it.” I said with some finality.